na 


UCSB  LIBRARY 


FOURSQUARE 


By  GRACE  S.  RICHMOND 


AUTHOR  OF 

"The  Brown  Study,"  "A  Court  of  Inquiry,"  "The  In- 

difference  of  Juliet,"  "Mrs.  Red  Pepper,"  "Red  Pe- 

per  Burns,"  "Red  and  Black,"  "Red  Pepper's 

Patients,"  "Strawberry  Acres,"  "The  Second 

Violin,"    "Round    the    Corner   in    Gay 

Street,"  "Twenty-fourth  of  June," 

"Under  the  Country  Sky,"  etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 

Published  by  arrangement  with  Doubleday,  Doran  &  Company,  Inc. 
Printed  in  U.  S.  A. 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


COPYRIGHT,   1922,    BT    THE    CURTIS    PUBLISHING    COMPANY    IN    TH* 
UNITED    STATES    AND    GREAT    BRITAIN 


THE  COUNTRY  LIFE  PRESS,  GARDEN  CITY,  N.  T. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGl 

I.    CHARACTERIZATIONS i 

II.  AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  ....  18 

III.  A  COLLEGE  TOWN 37 

IV.  THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA'  ...  55 
V.    A  BRIDGE  BUILDER 74 

VI.    A  CHALLENGE 93 

VII.    FORKS  AND  SPOONS 114 

VIII.    A  PARTIAL  ECLIPSE 126 

IX.    WHITE  ANEMONES 138 

X.  To  STIMULATE  IMAGINATION      .     .  161 

XL     STANDING  BY 175 

XII.    Two  RED  TULIPS 191 

XIII.  CHECK! 207 

XIV.  HANDICAPPED 229 

XV.    BEETHOVEN 247 

XVI.    WHITE  FIRE 258 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGI 

XVII.    OUT  OF  THE  ASHES 28* 

XVIII.     PARTNERSHIP 300 

XIX.     BLUE  AND  PURPLE 313 

XX.  THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD    .     .     .  33? 

XXI.  A  LITTLE  BROWN  BOOK       .     .     . 


FOURSQUARE 


CHAPTER  I 
CHARACTERIZATIONS 


HEN  on  one  blustering  afternoon 
m  late  March  Professor  Mark 
Fenn  came  into  the  dingy  old 
college  book-shop  which  was  one 
of  his  favourite  haunts,  he  passed 
by  the  magazine  stand  in  a  hurry, 
though  it  was  thick  with  all  the 
newest  April  publications  and 
vivid  with  their  colour.  His  mind 
was  upon  a  certain  row  of  book- 
shelves in  the  dimmest  part  of  the 
back  of  the  shop,  where  he  had 
yesterday  discovered  rich  treasure. 
Almost  an  hour  later,  when  he  had 
decided,  rather  against  his  judg- 
ment but  wholly  according  to  his 
inclination,  to  purchase  the  full 
tale  of  seven  books  which  he 
needed  to  complete  a  special  group 
in  his  collection,  he  passed  the 
magazine  stand  again,  and  this 
time  he  halted.  He  had  caught 
sight  of  the  name  of  Mary  Fletcher, 
emblazoned  in  large  letters  upon 
the  cover  of  The  Centrepiece. 


2  FOURSQUARE 

He  put  down  his  book  and  picked  up  the  magazine,  frown- 
ing a  little.  Why  should  Mary  be  writing  for  The  Centre- 
piece ?  He  ran  hastily  through  the  pages — he  didn't  have  to  go 
far,  for  the  story  he  sought  was  well  toward  the  front,  as  Mary 
Fletcher's  things  always  were.  He  glanced  at  the  opening 
lines — yes — there  it  was — the  delightful,  sparkling  style  which 
flashed  at  you  from  the  cold  print  with  the  first  distinctive 
paragraph.  There  were  the  exquisite  illustrations — her  editors 
never  gave  Mary  anything  but  the  best,  these  days. 

Mark  Fenn  fished  a  dingy  quarter  from  his  pocket,  waved 
it  at  Booth,  the  old  bookseller — just  now  occupied  with  an- 
other customer — and  placed  it  on  the  magazine  stand.  He 
folded  the  bulky  Centrepiece  in  the  middle  and  stuffed  it  into 
his  overcoat  pocket,  picked  up  his  package  of  books,  and  left 
the  shop. 

When  Harriet  Fenn  came  down  the  street  from  the  High 
School  where  she  held  a  teaching  position,  toward  the  little 
old  brown  house  where  she  and  her  brother  lived  together, 
she  saw  the  light  in  his  study  window  which  proclaimed  that 
he  had  reached  home  before  her.  At  this  time  of  year  she 
was  quite  sure  to  see  that  cheerful  light  shining  from  the  two 
lower  front  windows,  the  shades  undrawn — Mark  never  in 
the  world  thought  of  shutting  out  the  passers-by,  though  the 
house  lay  so  close  to  the  street.  Although  Harriet's  first 
move  when  she  came  in  was  to  go  and  twitch  the  shabby  old 
dark-red  curtains  together,  jealous  of  intrusion,  she  was  al- 
ways glad  Mark  hadn't  done  it  before  her.  That  welcoming 
light  made  all  the  difference  to  a  weary  school-teacher,  the 
presence  of  whose  one  brother  in  the  old  house  kept  it  home 
for  her,  as  she  was  sure  her  presence  did  for  him. 

Mark  didn't  hear  her  come  in — he  seldom  did.  She  liked 
to  let  herself  in  quietly  and  steal  to  the  door  of  the  square, 
low-ceiled  study,  its  walls  lined  from  floor  to  ceiling  with 
books,  in  all  sorts  of  bookcases.  From  year  to  year  Mark  had 


CHARACTERIZATIONS  3 

extended  his  ever  growing  collection,  more  eager  as  to  the  con- 
tents of  the  shelves  than  as  to  the  beauty  or  uniformity  of  the 
shelves  themselves.  Yet  the  result  was  not  inharmonious; 
somehow  one  forgot  the  motley  character  of  the  containers  in 
wonder  and  pleasure  at  the  wealth  of  the  collection  itself.  Not 
that  there  were  many  fine  bindings — though  here  and  there 
one  shone  out  richly;  but  there  were  rows  upon  rows  of 
those  volumes  in  sober  dress  which  speak  of  serious  uses,  and 
which  must  make  the  backbone  of  any  worthy  library. 

The  Professor  of  Psychology  at  Newcomb  College  had 
not  thrown  himself,  as  usual,  into  the  dingy  old  study  arm- 
chair which  he  was  wont  to  seek  when  he  first  came  in  after 
the  labours  of  the  day.  Neither  had  he  taken  the  spindle- 
backed  chair  which  served  him  at  his  desk — it  had  been  his 
father's  before  him.  He  was  sitting  on  the  edge  of  his  desk, 
hat  shoved  back,  overcoat  still  on,  his  legs  braced  to  hold 
him  steady,  while  he  read  with  absorption  from  a  popular 
magazine. 

Harriet's  affectionate  eyes  studied  her  brother's  sturdy 
figure  for  a  long  minute  before  she  spoke.  She  was  un- 
doubtedly prejudiced  in  his  favour,  yet  there  was  undeni- 
ably something  attractive  about  his  looks.  His  was  no 
pale,  scholastic,  spectacled  presentment  of  a  being  who 
might  have  been  normal  if  he  hadn't  developed  his  mind  at 
the  expense  of  his  body.  Mark  was  thoroughly  the  mature 
young  athlete  in  his  general  aspect;  his  colour  was  healthy, 
his  lean,  well-cut  features  were  markedly  interesting;  dis- 
cerning gray  eyes  looked  out  below  straight  brows,  and  the 
firm  lines  of  a  very  good  mouth  suggested  both  poise  and 
authority.  He  was  several  years  older  than  Harriet,  who 
had  herself  been  teaching  for  some  six  years  since  she  left 
college,  though  with  her  fair  hair  and  girlish  figure  she  by 
no  means  looked  as  far  along  in  the  twenties  as  the  records 
declared  her. 


4  FOURSQUARE 

"It  must  be  a  pretty  interesting  story,  to  keep  you  from 
undoing  a  package  of  new  books,"  she  observed,  at  length. 

Mark  looked  up,  met  her  scrutinizing  eyes  with  the  queer 
one-sided  smile  which  she  knew  of  old  to  speak  not  entire 
agreement  with  the  proposition  stated,  and  returned  to  his 
page. 

"Dead  tired,  Harry?"  he  inquired,  absent-mindedly. 

"As  usual.  What  else  could  I  be  after  a  week  of  mid- 
year examinations?  Never  mind — it's  Friday  night;  and 
I've  brought  home  oysters  for  supper." 

"Good!"     But  he  was  still  absent-minded. 

She  came  close  and  looked  over  his  shoulder  for  a  min- 
ute or  two.  "Oh,  by  Mary  Fletcher,"  she  observed.  "The 
girls  were  talking  about  it  to-day." 

Since  it  was  the  last  page  of  the  story,  the  name  of  the 
author  was  not  in  sight.  Harriet  had  judged  by  internal 
evidence;  she  had  caught  the  characteristic  original  style 
which  was  always  to  be  recognized. 

Mark  read  the  last  paragraph  and  dropped  the  magazine 
upon  his  desk,  where  with  its  gay  cover  it  lay  incongruously 
among  its  austere  surroundings. 

"Is  it  good?"  Harriet  asked,  taking  off  her  hat  and  running 
ordering  fingers  over  the  pale-coloured  masses  of  her  hair. 
"Oh,  such  a  day!  My  whole  grade  has  been  positively  on 
wires,  every  minute.  As  a  result  I'm  on  a  wire-edge  to- 
night, myself. — Is  the  story  good,  Mark  ? " 

"It's — Mary  Fletcher,"  her  brother  responded,  enigmat- 
ically. "Neither  more  nor  less.  After  a  year  of  war-writing, 
from  France,  I  thought  it  might  be  more." 

"Her  war  articles  were  very  fine,  I  thought.     So  did  you.** 

"This  is  fiction." 

"I'll  read  it,  by  and  by.  A  Mary  Fletcher  story  on  Fri- 
day night  will  make  me  forget  all  my  troubles." 

"There's  no  possible  doubt  of  that,"  he  admitted. 


CHARACTERIZATIONS  5 

A  hot  ayster  stew  on  a  March  Friday  night  is  also, 
for  people  who  have  been  teaching  all  the  week,  a  stimulant 
for  tired  nerves.  When  Harriet  Fenn  had  washed  and  put 
away  the  supper  dishes,  and  sat  down  at  last  in  her  brother 
Mark's  big  shabby  armchair  beside  the  low  study  light,  she 
was  in  a  mood  to  enjoy  the  relaxation  which  is  one  of  the  re- 
wards of  labour.  She  picked  up  the  magazine,  looking  it 
through,  turning  its  pages  with  lingering  fingers.  At  the  other 
side  of  the  room  Mark  was  crowding  a  row  of  books  unmerci- 
fully to  make  space  for  a  thick  volume  from  the  opened 
package  upon  his  desk.  Harriet  glanced  across  at  him,  regard- 
ing his  profile  against  the  dark  background  of  the  books. 

"Mark,  you  look  more  like  Father  every  day,"  she  ob- 
served, "and  act  like  him.  He  was  never  happy  till  he'd 
put  a  new  book  in  its  place.  Not  that  he  had  many — -com- 
pared with  you.  How  he  would  open  his  eyes  at  this  room! 
You  must  have  doubled — trebled — the  number  he  had." 

"I'm  afraid  I  have.  Where  I'm  reckless  in  buying,  he'd 
have  denied  himself.  I  wish  he  hadn't.  I  wish — I  could 
show  him  these  I've  brought  home  to-night." 

Brother  and  sister  instinctively  looked  up  at  the  one  pic- 
ture the  room  contained — a  dark  portrait  hung  above  the 
chimneypiece,  with  rows  of  books  pressing  close  on  either 
side.  Even  on  the  chimneyshelf,  below  the  portrait,  two 
uneven  rows  of  small  volumes  were  lined  up,  no  further  space 
being  available  for  their  peculiar  size.  The  portrait  looked 
down  at  the  pair  below  steadily,  with  a  kindly,  fatherly  gaze 
from  warmly  human  eyes,  yet  with  a  suggestion  of  severity 
showing  in  the  lines  of  the  lips  and  the  prominent  chin. 
Though  such  a  father  might  condone  faults  in  his  children  he 
would  be  likely  to  deal  harshly  with  the  same  faults  in  him- 
self. It  was  preeminently  the  portrait  of  a  scholar  but, 
unless  every  aspect  of  him  misled,  the  man  himself  had  been 
greater  than  his  own  learning. 


6  FOURSQUARE 

"You  do  resemble  him  more  and  more,"  Harriet  said  again. 
"I'm  glad  of  that.  There  never  was  anybody  like  him — 
except  you." 

"I'm  not  a  particle  like  him.  I  don't  deserve  to  be  called 
his  son.  I  lost  my  temper  at  least  five  times  to-day.  In 
my  place  he  would  have  kept  his — absolutely;  and  had  twice 
the  influence  over  the  offenders." 

"Just  the  same — you're  like  him,"  Harriet  persisted. 
"And  he'd  have  been  glad  to  have  you  buy  all  the  books  you 
wanted." 

"Do  you  realize,"  Mark  said,  with  sudden  vehemence, 
"that  my  slim  salary  to-day  is  exactly  double  the  biggest 
he  ever  had,  in  the  very  last  years  of  his  life?  And  that  at 
the  present  outrageous  scale  of  salaries!  No  wonder  he 
couldn't  buy  books  except  by  going  without  meat — which 
he  did,  bless  him.  I  wouldn't  take  ten  times  their  cost  for 
that  little  old  first  collection  of  his.  Do  you  see  I've  put 
them  all  together  again,  in  his  first  bookcase — that  he  made 
himself?  There's  the  library  of  a  scholar  for  you — two  hun- 
dred and  seventy-three  books  with  the  autograph  of  David 
Matthew  Fenn  in  every  one  of  them.  I'd  like  to  show  that 
library  to  Mary  Fletcher,"  he  added,  with  sudden  stern- 
ness, "and  tell  her  to  study  it  and  learn — to  write!" 

"To  write,  Mark!  Why,  I  thought  you  thought " 

Harriet  looked  distinctly  puzzled.  Her  gaze  fell  to  the  maga- 
zine in  her  hand.  Her  fingers  turned  the  pages  till  they  came 

to  the  story.  "And,  Behold "  was  its  singular  title. 

She  looked  up  again.  "It  looks  delightful,"  she  temporized. 

"It  is  delightful."  Mark  turned  again  to  the  portrait. 
"Father  used  to  prophesy  big  things  for  her.  I  wonder  what 
he'd  say  to  her  now." 

"Why,  Mark!  Has  she — lost?  I've  heard  you  say  her 
style  was  inimitable." 

"It  is.     And  her  technique  is  perfect.     But " 


CHARACTERIZATIONS  7 

Harriet  cried  out  sharply,  interrupting  him.  "Why, 
here's  a  picture  of  Mary!  Did  you  see  it? — just  over  the 
leaf.  'Mary  Fletcher  since  her  return  from  war-work  in 
France'  Oh,  isn't  she  lovely?" 

Mark  came  across  the  room  to  look  over  her  shoulder. 
"My  word — she  is!"  he  agreed. 

"Lovely — and  full  of  fire — as  she  always  was.  Just  a 
little  older — naturally."  Harriet  went  on  commenting, 
studying  the  face  before  her.  "But  one  wants  her  to  be — 
and  she's  only  the  more  interesting." 

The  photograph  showed  a  face  which  might  well  challenge 
attention,  being  not  merely  that  of  a  decidedly  attractive 
young  woman  but  of  one  whose  intelligence  and  spirit  were 
clearly  to  be  counted  upon.  There  was  something  unusual 
about  the  face;  the  eyes  were  those  of  a  poet  and  dreamer, 
yet  the  mouth  suggested  a  sense  of  humour,  and  the  firmly 
rounded  chin  more  than  declared  that  its  owner  possessed 
will  and  energy  in  plenty.  The  poise  of  the  head  with  its 
carefully  ordered  wealth  of  dark  hair,  the  clear-cut  curve  of 
neck  and  shoulder,  spoke  of  one  who  held  an  assured  posi- 
tion. Altogether  the  somewhat  prolonged  contemplation 
which  both  brother  and  sister  gave  this  presentment  of  one 
whom  they  had  long  known  but  had  not  seen  much  of  late 
could  hardly  be  wondered  at.  Nobody  who  had  ever  known 
Mary  Fletcher  could  fail  to  be  impressed  at  sight  of  this 
latest  view  of  her;  it  showed  what  life  is  capable  of  building 
upon  the  foundation  of  a  promising  girlhood,  such  as  Mark 
and  Harriet  remembered. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon "  A  pleasant,  low  voice  spoke  depre- 

catingly.  "You  didn't  hear  the  knocker,  and  I  ventured  in. 
It's  raining,  and  the  wind  blows  right  across  your  front  porch.*' 

Harriet  sprang  up,  dropping  the  magazine.  "Oh,  do  come 
in,  Miss  Sara.  No,  we  didn't  hear  you — the  wind's  blowing 
so.  Let  me  take  your  wraps." 


8  FOURSQUARE 

It  was  the  Fenns'  next-door  neighbour,  Miss  Sara  Graham. 
She  came  in  smiling,  a  slender,  aristocratic  little  figure  of  a 
middle-aged  woman,  with  a  scarf  of  fine  blue  silk  tied  about 
her  carefully  arranged  gray  hair,  a  richly  fur-lined  cape 
slipping  from  her  shoulders.  Harriet  took  charge  of  cape 
and  scarf,  while  Mark  pushed  the  old  armchair  nearer  the 
smoking  logs  in  the  narrow  little  fireplace,  and  gave  a  bracing 
poke  to  them  which  resulted  in  a  freshly  leaping  blaze. 

"I'm  so  very  happy  over  some  news  of  mine,  I  wanted  to 
come  over  and  share  it  with  you."  Miss  Graham  drew  a 
letter  from  her  little  beaded  handbag.  "I  knew  you  were 
always  interested  in  my  niece's  plans,  and  this  one  seems  to 
me  very  wonderful — for  me,  and  I  hope  for  her." 

With  Harriet  in  the  spindle-backed  desk  chair,  waiting 
with  eager  curiosity,  and  Mark  leaning  an  elbow  on  the 
chimneypiece  shelf  as  he  stood  on  the  hearth-rug,  poker 
still  in  hand,  the  visitor  read  aloud  a  paragraph  from  the 
long  typed  letter  of  many  sheets. 

"'Somehow  I'm  bitten  with  the  hungriest  desire  to  get  back  to 
your  blessed  old  home  and  your  blessed  young  self.' — 

"  You  know  Mary's  extravagant  way  of  putting  things," 
Miss  Graham  interpolated,  with  a  deprecating  little  laugh. — 

"'And  I  know  of  no  place  in  the  whole  wide  world  where,  it  now 
seems  to  me,  I  can  better  pull  my  vagrant  thoughts — and  self — 
together,  and  make  them  do  a  respectable  day's  work.  The  book 
— the  book  I  want  to  write — my  first  real  book,  after  all  these  vola- 
tile short  stories  and  the  collections  of  them  which  don't  really 
count  as  books  at  all,  you  know — that's  all  I  can  think  of.  And 
now  that  I'm  back  from  France,  somehow  I  can't  seem  to  settle 
down  here  in  the  little  old  apartment,  even  with  my  dear  Alexandra 
Warren.  Girls  and  men  are  always  dropping  in,  and  there  are 
theatres  and  supper  parties  without  end — something  everlastingly 
doing,  and  it's  impossible  to  keep  out  of  it,  even  on  the  plea  of 


CHARACTERIZATIONS  g 

work.  Somehow  it  doesn't  seem  real  life  any  more — though  before 
I  went  across  I  thought  it  the  only  real  life!  I  want  to  come  back 
to  that  jolly  big  room  you  always  gave  me.  Did  you  know  I  used  to 
climb  out  from  the  west  window,  catch  that  long  branch  of  the  old 
larch,  and  swing  down  to  the  porch  roof,  from  which  it  was  only  a 
long  jump  into  the  middle  of  your  verbena  bed  ? — No  wonder  you  had 
so  much  ill  luck  with  your  verbenas,  those  summers! — And  I  want 
to  sit  on  the  old  cross-stitch  footstool  with  the  bits  of  arms,  almost 
in  your  big  fireplace,  in  your  adorable  drawing-room  with  its  old 
mahogany  and  its  portraits,  and  its  samplers  in  frames,  and  its 
cabinets  of  East  India  treasures ' " 

Miss  Graham  broke  off,  glancing  down  the  page.  "The 
child  goes  into  such  raptures  over  my  plain  old  home,"  she 
explained.  "I'll  find  the  place  where  she " 

"Oh,  please  don't  leave  out  the  raptures,"  Harriet  begged, 
all  the  tired  lines  gone  out  of  her  pleasant  face  with  the 
interest  of  listening.  "We  like  to  hear  every  word  Mary 
ever  wrote,  you  know.  She  writes  so  differently  from  other 
people,  even  in  her  letters.  Why,  we  were  just  reading  her 
last  story,  to-night,  and  talking  of  her."  Harriet  glanced  at 
her  brother  and  bit  her  lip,  remembering  suddenly  what 
Mark  had  said — or  hadn't  said — but  had  implied,  in  criti- 
cism of  Mary.  "We  haven't  really  seen  anything  of  her 
since  long  before  she  went  to  France.  It  must  be — why — 
all  of  four  years." 

"She  says  it's  five."  Miss  Graham  was  still  turning  over 
the  closely  typed  thin  sheets,  with  their  many  dashes  and  the 
unconsciously  consistent  paragraphing  of  the  trained  writer. 
"It  is  three  since  her  father  and  mother  died,  and  she  hadn't 
been  here  for  two  years,  at  least,  before  that." 

There  was  no  change  of  tone  in  her  quietly  natural  allusion 
to  the  greatest  tragedy  of  her  own  life.  Mary  Fletcher's 
father  and  mother — Mrs.  Fletcher  was  Miss  Graham's  sister 
— had  been  killed  together  in  a  motor  accident  while  trav- 
elling in  Italy.  Dr.  Fletcher  had  been  the  distinguished  head- 


io  FOURSQUARE 

master  at  Stevenson,  a  famous  private  school  for  boys.  It 
was  from  her  girlish  life  in  this  school  that  Mary  had  come  to 
spend  her  summers  with  her  aunt  in  the  near-by  small 
college  town.  It  had  been  her  mother's  home  until  her  mar- 
riage, and  so  by  every  association  it  was  natural  that  Mary 
should  look  upon  it  with  affection. 

"Oh,  this  is  what  I  specially  wanted  you  to  hear,"  Miss 
Graham  went  on,  her  face  brightening  again.  She  read  with 
a  smile  touching  her  delicate  lips. 

"'It  seems  to  me,  Aunt  Sara,  that  if  I  could  just  live  a  perfectly 
simple,  rational  life  with  you,  for  one  whole  year — can  you  bear  it  to 
have  me  that  long? — go  to  bed  at  ten  o'clock — [I  can't  fancy  it!] 
— have  grapefruit  and  coffee  and  'Liza's  jolly  little  old  graham  -rolls 
in  the  morning,  go  for  long  tramps,  and  perhaps — well — have 
Harriet  Fenn  and  Professor  Mark  in,  now  and  then,  in  the  evenings, 
by  way  of  dissipation'" — Harriet  laughed  out  at  this,  and  Mark 
grinned  darkly,  in  the  shadow  above  the  fire — "'I  could,  perhaps, 
after  a  while,  give  myself  to  serious  work.  I  never  can  do  it  here, 
now — that  I'm  sure  of.  I  really  can't  describe  to  you  how  it  has 
suddenly  all  palled  upon  me.  For  one  whole  year  I  don't  want  my 
flowers  out  of  a  florist's  shop,  I  want  to  pick  them  in  your  garden. — 
May  I  come,  may  I — may  I?" 

"When  will  she  come?"  Harriet  asked,  understanding  that 
the  matter  was  already  settled.  The  light  in  Miss  Graham's 
face  told  that.  What  must  it  not  mean  to  her  to  anticipate 
having  her  quiet  life  enriched  for  a  whole  year  by  so  delight- 
ful a  companionship  as  that  of  this  still  youthful  yet  challeng- 
ingly  mature  personality  ?  Already  Harriet  could  almost  see 
Mary  running  out  of  the  austerely  dignified  white  house  with 
its  tall  pillared  porch  to  cross  the  lawn,  leap  the  low  hedge, 
and  dash  into  the  little  brown  house  next  door,  full  of  some 
news  or  plan  with  which  to  startle  her  more  staid  neighbours. 
Or — would  Mary  conceivably  have  changed  and  be  no 
longer  a  hedge-leaper?  She  had  been  through  much  en; 


CHARACTERIZATIONS  1 1 

larging  experience  since  the  Fenns  had  known  her;  would  she 
be  somehow  removed  from  them,  even  though,  as  her  letter 
suggested,  she  should  "have  them  in,  now  and  then — by  way 
of  dissipation"?  Just  what  did  Mary  mean  by  that?  Was 
it  a  bit  of  a  jeer  at  their  quiet  manner  of  life  in  the  old  college 
town  ?  Harriet  wondered. 

"She  gives  me  barely  time  to  get  her  room  in  order,"  Miss 
Graham  declared  happily.  "And  the  piano  must  be  tuned — 
she  stipulated  that.  She  wants  to  know  if  you've  kept  up 
your  practice  on  the  'cello" — Mark  shook  his  head  regret- 
fully— "and  says  she  must  have  music  if  she  is  to  write.  It 
all  sounds  as  if  she  were  precisely  her  old — what  is  the  word 
used  so  much  these  days  ? — her  old  temperamental  self " 

"Don't  say  it!"  Mark  fairly  interrupted,  a  frown  of 
impatience  crossing  his  brow.  "  Of  all  modern  excuses  for 
intemperance  and  irrelevance — and  general  idiocy — that's  the 
worst.  An  author  of  her  class  is  old  enough  to  stop  being 
'temperamental'  in  her  work — and  out  of  it — and  become 
rational — in  her  work  and  out  of  it.  I  want  to  see  her  do 
it!" 

Miss  Graham  stared  up  at  him,  not  quite  comprehending 
his  ferocity,  and  a  little  hurt,  though  she  was  used  to  his 
abrupt  statements,  and  knew  well  enough  that  his  friendship 
for  her  and  for  Mary  herself  was  not  to  be  questioned. 

"Don't  mind  him,"  Harriet  said  quickly,  as  Mark  picked 
up  the  magazine  which  contained  Mary's  story.  "He's 
rather  a  bear  to-night.  The  week's  work  has  been  heavy." 
She  shook  her  head  warningly  at  her  brother.  But  Miss 
Graham  had  recognized  the  magazine  and  was  reminded 
of  something  in  Mary's  letter  which  she  hadn't  read  to  the 
Fenns. 

"Oh,"  she  said,  "Mary  spoke  of  that.  Have  you  read  it? 
I  haven't — yet.  She  calls  it — I  think  the  word  was — 
'punk'/"  She  spoke  the  unaccustomed  syllable  with  a  wry 


12  FOURSQUARE 

little  twist  of  her  lips.  "She  said  when  I'd  read  it  I  should 
know  why  she  needed  a  year  with  me.  Fm  sorry — I  didn't 
suppose  Mary  would  ever  write  anything  unworthy!" 

"She  hasn't."  Harriet  was  quick  in  defense.  "I  haven't 
read  it  myself,  yet  I  know  it  isn't  unworthy.  Perhaps  it 
isn't  her  best — all  that  she's  capable  of " 

Miss  Graham  looked  up  with  almost  pleading  in  her  blue 
eyes  at  Mark,  who  had  been  standing  with  his  arm  upon  the 
chimneypiece,  below  the  portrait  of  his  father.  He  had 
rather  suddenly  stiffened;  the  likeness  to  the  face  above 
stood  out  strikingly. 

"If  she  knows  it's  punk,"  he  said,  in  answer  to  her  un- 
spoken question,  "and  if  she's  coming  off  up  here  to  get  away 
from  the  temptation  to  keep  on  writing  punk,  there's  hope 
for  her.  Get  her  here,  as  soon  as  you  can — and — if  you'll 
take  my  advice,  don't  coddle  her  too  much.  I'm  not  sure 
I  should  tune  the  piano  for  her!" 

"Why,  Mark!"  Harriet  was  smiling,  yet  she  was  a  little 
worried,  lest  he  hurt  the  gentle  lady  for  whom  they  both 
cared  so  much.  "I  think  it  would  do  you  yourself  good  to 
get  out  the  old  'cello  and  play  with  her.  Only  yesterday 
you  were  planning  to  take  me  in  town  for  a  concert.  You 
said  you  were  starved  to  hear  some  good  music!" 

"I  certainly  never  used  that  word,"  denied  her  brotherr 
evidently  nettled,  the  colour  rising  a  little  in  his  cheek. 
"  Starved' s  not  a  word  of  mine,  thank  the  Lord!  Mary  uses 
it  three  times  in  one  short  story.  Emotionalism — over- 
emphasis— I've  no  use  for  'em."  He  looked  at  Miss  Gra- 
ham, and  his  frowning  brows  smoothed  somewhat.  "I'm 
afraid  I  am  a  grouch  to-night,"  he  admitted.  "It's  really 
great  news  you  bring  us,  neighbour,  and  we  shall  be  glad  to 
see  your  Mary  again,  be  she  never  so  scornful  of  our  limi- 
tations." 

"Scornful?     I  think  she  feels  she  needs  limitations,"  said 


CHARACTERIZATIONS  13 

Harriet  Fenn,  with  one  of  the  flashes  of  interpretation  which 
sometimes  surprised  her  brother.  "She's  been  having  so 
much,  doing  so  much,  experiencing  so  much;  she  wants  to  get 
away  where  it's  quiet  and  she  can  think  it  over.  How  can 
one  wonder!  With  all  her  success — so  much  praise — so 
much  vogue;  and  then  this  last  year  and  a  half  abroad, 
writing  all  those  wonderful  articles,  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
excitement  and  tension.  No  wonder  she  wants  to — collect 
herself.  And  this  is  just  the  place!  I'm  so  glad  she's 
coming." 

"I  will  tell  her  you  say  so."  Miss  Graham  laid  the  sheets 
of  the  letter  together,  the  flush  on  her  cheeks  deepening  as 
she  rose  to  go.  "She  really  thinks  very  much  of  you  both,  I 
know.  And  you  will  be  good  for  her.  Do  you  know,  at  the 
bottom  of  it  all,  I  think  Mary  is  just  a  little  tired?  She 
wrote  so  much,  worked  so  hard,  all  the  while  she  was  over 
there,  she  must  need  a  real  rest.  It  will  give  me  great  happi- 
ness to  look  after  her.  Independent  as  she  is,  I  know  she 
misses — her  father  and  mother." 

The  little  dignified  speech,  so  like  the  finely  bred,  sweet- 
spirited  woman  who  made  it,  brought  Mark  forward  with  a 
quick  word  of  apology. 

"Forgive  me,  so  she  does,  Miss  Sara.  She  shall  have  the 
best  we  can  give  her.  Please  tell  her  so,  from  me.  I  sus- 
pect the  matter  with  me  is  that  I'm  jealous  of  that  mar- 
vellous ability  of  hers — and  jealous  for  it,  too — that  she  shall 
do  the  thing  she's  capable  of — and  that  she  hasn't  done — 
yet." 

When  Harriet  had  escorted  her  visitor  to  the  door,  and 
returned  to  the  warm,  homely  room,  with  its  uneven  rows  of 
books  and  its  plain,  comfortable  furnishings,  she  regarded 
her  brother  reproachfully. 

"How  could  you  take  away  from  her  happiness  by  sug- 
gesting such  a  criticism  of  Mary?  All  writers  are  more  or 


I4  FOURSQUARE 

less  uneven — I've  heard  you  say  so  many  a  time  yourself. 
You  know  everything  she  writes  is  attractive,  and  I've  no 
doubt  this  last  thing  is.  I'm  going  to  read  it  and  find  out." 

"Go  to  it!"  Mark  slid  the  magazine  across  the  desk  at 
her.  "Revel  in  the  moonlight  and  the  mush." 

"Mark! — Mary  never  writes  mush." 

"She  comes  mighty  near  it,  this  time.  But  don't  let  me 
prejudice  you." 

"As  if  you  hadn't  done  your  best  to!  But  I  refuse  to  be 
prejudiced." 

"Good  old  Harry — with  her  judicial  mind." 

Harriet  turned  her  back  upon  him  and  began.  She  read 
the  six  pages  at  a  rush,  lingered  over  the  illustrations,  three 
out  of  the  four  of  which  represented  the  heroine  with  one  or 
other  of  the  five  men  by  whom  she  was  surrounded  through- 
out the  story;  and  finally  laid  the  magazine  down  with  sus- 
picious quietness,  to  sit  staring  into  the  fire  without  a  com- 
ment. Her  brother,  now  smoking  a  well-coloured  briarwood 
pipe,  while  he  put  in  order  a  mass  of  papers  at  his  desk,  looked 
up  at  the  slight  creak  of  the  old  rocker  in  which  Harriet  sat. 

"Well?"  he  demanded. 

Harriet  hesitated.  Then  she  temporized.  "I  thought 
the  description  of  Californian  scenery — the  atmosphere  and 
colouring  and  all — was  very  vivid." 

"It  was." 

"The  characterizations  were  certainly  good." 

"One  girl,  five  young  men,  and  an  Airedale  dog,  as  I  re- 
member them.  Also,  a  Chinese  cook.  I  don't  know  but 
there  was  a  chaperon,  for  propriety — a  pale  shade  in  laven- 
der. There  was,  I  admit,  a  bit  of  good  character  drawing 
of  the  Chinaman — and  possibly  of  the  dog.  The  others 
all  looked  about  alike  to  me.  I  believe  one  was  named 
Billy  and  one  Jack." 

"The  story  is  certainly  charming — and  unusual,"  defended 


CHARACTERIZATIONS  1 5 

Harriet,  with  the  obstinacy  her  brother  particularly  enjoyed 
in  her.  "I  can  never  get  over  admiring  Mary's  use  of  words. 
She  flings  them  about  so  recklessly — she  uses  up  so  many 
striking  phrases — and  yet  she  never  seems  to  run  out  or  to 
say  the  same  thing  in  the  same  way.  It's  all  so  fresh  and 
facile.  It's " 

"Keep  on,"  encouraged  her  brother,  grimly.  "Say  it 
all — it's  all  true.  But  that's  precisely  the  trouble." 

"What's  precisely  the  trouble?" 

"That  she  has  so  many  tools  in  her  workshop — that  they're 
all  sharpened  to  so  fine  an  edge — all  so  fitted  to  her  hand. 
And  that  she  keeps  on  making  with  them — nothing  but 
pretty  toys." 

"Oh,  Mark!    Think  of  her  war  work!" 

"That  was  mighty  good,  certainly,"  he  admitted.  "It 
could  hardly  be  otherwise.  She  was  writing  fact,  not  fiction, 
and  she  was  keyed  up  to  do  her  best  work.  She  was  stim- 
ulated to  produce  what  her  editors  expected  of  her,  truth- 
ful tales  of  what  she  saw  and  heard.  The  material  was  all  at 
hand,  she  had  only  to  use  her  discrimination.  Every  power 
she  had  was  at  her  service.  There  was  nothing  distinctly 
creative  about  it;  she  would  tell  you  herself  that  given  her 
own  ability  she  couldn't  help  writing  as  she  did.  But  after 
all,  she  was  only  a  reporter,  of  a  very  high  class.  In  a  way, 
the  experience  did  injury  to  her  creative  faculty;  she  had 
such  a  wealth  of  material  and  inspiration  at  hand  she  had 
no  need  to  use  her  imagination." 

"I  don't  agree  with  you."  Harriet  shook  her  head  de- 
cidedly. "Only  a  highly  trained  imagination  could  have 
seen  what  Mary  saw." 

"Granted,  my  dear.  That's  absolutely  true.  But  at  the 
same  time  this  very  story — the  first,  I  judge,  she's  written 
since  she  came  back — shows  a  certain  poverty  of  conception, 
a  certain  reversion  to  the  old  type  of  gay  and  dever  and 


16  FOURSQUARE 

perfectly  meaningless  tale-telling  for  an  idle  hour,  which — 
well — it  gives  me  such  a  sense  of  disappointment  that  1 
can't  get  over  it." 

"I  see  you  can't.  For  a  man  who's  bought  seven  new 
books  to-day,  I  think  you're  pretty  pessimistic — I  won't  say 
pedantic.  Miss  Graham's  probably  right — Mary's  tired. 
And  she  wanted  the  money,  so  she  wrote  this  story  and  got  it 
— the  easiest  way.  Her  prices  must  be  enormous  by  now. 
What  she  earned  by  that  alone  will  bring  her  here  and  pay 
expenses  till  she  can  rest  up,  and  go  at  the  work  she  really 
plans  to  do — and  is  capable  of  doing." 

Though  it  was  not  yet  time  to  do  it  by  twenty-four  hours, 
Harriet  now  wound  the  clock  with  firmness  and  decision. 
Mark,  relaxing  from  his  critical  attitude,  laughed  and  came 
across  to  pat  her  shoulder  as  she  said  good-night. 

"You're  a  great  little  champion  of  the  downtrodden 
author  with  a  yearly  income  which  makes  yours  and  mine 
put  together  look  like  the  widow's  mite.  And  I  hope  you're 
right.  Anyhow,  it  will  be  interesting  to  see  what  success — 
in  the  ordinary  acceptation  of  the  term — has  done  for  the  girl 
we  used  to  know  so  well." 

Left  alone  by  the  smouldering  fire  Mark  absently  picked 
up  the  magazine  and  absently  turned  the  pages  till  he  came 

to  "And,  Behold "  again.  Then,  by  no  means  absently, 

he  reread  the  closing  paragraphs,  and  with  a  sudden  gesture 
of  distaste  flung  the  unoffending  copy  of  The  Centrepiece  into 
the  fire. 

"If  you're  coming  within  my  reach,  Mary  Fletcher,"  he 
said  to  himself,  "I'll  do  my  duty  by  you  like  a  man  and  a 
brother.  Somehow  I  have  an  idea  this  year  will  give  you 
your  only  chance." 

Then,  as  he  watched  the  flames  slowly  surround  the  bulky 
pages,  he  all  at  once  remembered  something  which  he  was 
destroying  along  with  Mary's  despised  work.  He  snatched 


CHARACTERIZATIONS  17 

the  magazine  from  the  fire,  with  some  difficulty  extinguished 
the  smouldering  singe  along  the  edges,  and  finding  the  page 
which  bore  the  reproduction  of  Mary's  photograph,  carefully 
tore  it  out.  The  remains  of  the  magazine  went  back  into 
the  fire,  but  the  picture  received  a  second  thorough  scrutiny. 
Finally,  the  sheet  which  bore  it  went  into  Mark's  lowest 
desk  drawer.  One  might  resolve  to  do  one's  whole  duty, 
as  a  man  and  a  brother,  by  a  young  woman  who  looked  like 
that,  but  one  needn't  necessarily  destroy  so  striking  an  image 
of  her.  Best  retain  it  for  purposes  of  comparison  with  the 
original.  One  cannot  know  too  much  about  the  subject  one 
investigates.  Besides — the  picture,  as  Harriet  had  said, 
was  really  very  lovely,  and  didn't  in  the  least — like  the  story 
- — deserve  burning. 


CHAPTER  II 
AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES 


RANKLY,"  said  John  Kirkwood,  irri- 
tation in  his  voice,  "I  don't  like  it." 

"I'm  very  sorry  to  lose  her,"  agreed 
Miss  Alexandra  Warren,  heartily. 
"But  I  don't  see  that  there's  anything 
we  can  do  about  it.  When  Mary 
makes  up  her  mind,  it's  not  I  who  can 
unmake  it.  Neither — with  all  honour 
to  your  powers  of  persuasion,  Mr. 
Kirkwood — can  you,  I'm  thinking." 

"In  my  opinion,"  continued  Mr. 
Kirkwood,  editor  of  a  deservedly  pop- 
ular magazine,  and  very  much  accus- 
tomed to  having  his  own  way,  "she 
will  be  making  the  mistake  of  her  life, 
at  a  critical  moment  when  she  can  least 
afford  to  make  it.  It's  absurd — pre- 
posterous— that  she  should  go  off  and 
bury  herself  in  the  country  for  a  year, 
with  the  idea  of  producing  anything 
worth  while." 

"Of  course  it  isn't  quite  the  coun- 
try," objected  Miss  Warren,  deter- 
mined to  do  her  friend  full  justice 
"And  it's  a  college  town " 

"What  college?" 

"Newcomb — I  believe." 
18 


AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  ig 

"Who  ever  heard  of  it?"  demanded  Kirkwood. 

"I  asked  Mary  that,"  admitted  Mary's  friend.  "She 
gave  me  a  long  list  of  distinguished  names — all  graduates." 

"They  became  distinguished  in  spite  of  their  college,  not 
because  of  it,  then,"  declared  the  editor,  most  unfairly, 
because  of  course  he  knew  nothing  about  it.  "And  it  is 
the  country,  since  it's  not  New  York,  nor  within  hailing 
distance  of  it." 

"Oh,  how  narrow  you  are!"  Miss  Warren  regarded  his 
face — his  thin,  tense  face,  with  the  evidences  of  hard  work 
and  late  hours  lined  heavily  beneath  his  dark  eyes.  "I'll 
wager  you  came  from  the  country  yourself.  In  fact,  I  know 
you  did." 

"I  did,  certainly.  It's  a  mighty  good  place  to  come  from 
— and  to  stay  away  from,  after  one's  achieved  the  getting 
away.  I  don't  advise  anybody  to  go  back  to  it,  least  of  all 
Mary  Fletcher.  She's  made  a  place  for  herself;  she's  been 
in  the  public  eye  with  her  war  work.  She  has  her  great 
chance  now,  to  make  that  name  of  hers  stand  out  with  a  new 
significance.  But  if  she  takes  that  chance  she's  got  to  take 
it  here."  The  editor's  lean  jaw  stiffened ;  the  frown  between 
his  eyes  deepened.  "This  is  the  place  for  her  to  do  that 
work — unless,  of  course,  she  intends  to  write  a  history  of 
Newfane — what  is  it? — Newcomb  College.  In  which  case, 
I  admit  she'd  better  be  on  the  ground." 

"I  don't  think  she  has  the  least  idea  what  it  is  she  wants 
to  write." 

"She  won't  get  her  great  idea  walking  along  a  country 
road.  She  won't  get  it  at  a  village  tea-party.  She  won't 
get  it  anywhere — except  here,  in  the  midst  of  life,  where  the 
big  things  happen,  where  the  stimulating  contacts  are  pos- 
sible, where " 

The  telephone  bell  in  the  pleasant  little  apartment  rang 
almost  in  the  speaker's  ear.  He  turned  with  quick  annoy- 


20  FOURSQUARE 

ance,  succeeded  instantly  by  expectation,  as  he  remembered 
from  whom  the  call  might  be. 

"Perhaps  that's  Mary."  Miss  Warren  came  over  to  the 
desk,  from  which  Kirkwood  removed  his  elbow  to  give  her 
room.  She  sat  down,  a  graceful  figure,  and  listened  with  a 
smiling  face  to  a  rapid  explanation  which  seemed  to  leave 
no  room  for  expostulation. 

"I  see.  .  .  .  Yes,  he's  here.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  him.  .  .  . 
Do  you  want  to  speak  with  him?  .  .  .  Wait  a  minute. 
.  .  .  No — wait  a  minute,  Mary,  please!" 

Miss  Warren  covered  the  transmitter  with  one  hand  while 
she  said  softly,  "She's  been  detained  downtown,  can't  get 
home  for  dinner — want  s  me  to  tell  you  she  would  be  sorry 
if  she  had  time  to  be  anything  except  horribly  rushed.  She 
hasn't  time  to  talk  with  you " 

Kirkwood  seized  the  instrument  from  Miss  Warren's 
hands,  with  a  sort  of  growl  by  way  of  apology. 

"Mary — "  he  began,  "if  you  have  to  stay  downtown — 
though  why  in  the  world  ...  I  beg  your  pardon,  I  know 
it's  no  affair  of  mine.  .  .  .  But  if  you  are  downtown, 
won't  you  let  me  come  and  take  you  to  dinner?  Please!" 

Miss  Warren  sat  back,  much  amused,  as  she  watched  the 
editor  pass  rapidly  through  the  various  stages  of  confidence, 
uneasiness,  loss  of  hope,  and  final  despair  which  were  readily 
indicated  by  his  spasmodic  utterances  into  the  telephone. 
When  he  finally  hung  up  the  receiver  with  an  exasperated 
jerk  she  had  no  need  to  have  him  tell  her — as  he  promptly 
did — that  Mary  Fletcher  was  probably  the  most  unreason- 
able and  impossible  young  woman  in  the  whole  city  this 
night. 

"You  can  hardly  blame  her,"  she  reminded  him,  "for 
wanting  to  get  away,  if  she's  going  at  all,  as  quickly  as  pos- 
sible. I  never  saw  her  so  tired — in  fact,  I  never  saw  her  tired 
at  all.  She  did  work  desperately  hard  over  there,  little  as 


AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  21 

she's  said  about  it.  And  now,  to  get  away,  she  must  do  all 
this  shopping " 

"Shopping — to  go  to  the  country?" 

Alexandra  Warren  laughed.  "Why  not?  You  know 
Mary  herself  says  that  if  being  a  genius  means  looking  dowdy 
and  grubby,  she  prefers  to  stop  short  of  genius  and  continue 
to  be  ready  for  the  snapshot  photographer — whom  she  can't 
possibly  avoid,  anyway,  try  as  she  may.  And  of  course, 
though  she  snatched  up  a  few  pretty  things  before  she  sailed, 
she's  really  dependent  on  her  tailor  and  her  dressmaker  here 
to  put  her  in  shape  to  go  anywhere.  That's  where  she  is 
to-night,  getting  a  last  fitting — on  a  brown  tweed  suit  that 
is  positively  the  prettiest " 

"You  don't  expect  me  to  believe,"  Kirkwood  interrupted, 
"she's  getting  a  fitting  from  any  New  York  tailor  at  this 
hour!" 

"Even  so,  though  it's  hard  to  believe.  Mary  can  wheedle 
anybody  mto  doing  anything.  She  says  the  tailor  came  from 
the  country  originally,  and  is  in  great  sympathy  with  her 
going  back  there.  She  says  he  says  that  his  one  ambition  is 
to  get  enough  money  to  stop  tailoring  and  go  and  buy  a  farm. 

So  he's  much  interested  in "  She  stopped  to  laugh  at 

Kirkwood's  face.  "What  a  cynic  you  are!"  she  told  him. 
"Don't  you  think  any  good  can  possibly  come  out  of  Naza- 
reth ?  And  do  you  expect  a  woman  like  Mary  to  walk  the 
streets  of  a  really  fine  old  college  town  in  the  clothes  she 
left  behind  when  she  went  to  France?  She's  given  them 
all  away,  anyway." 

Kirkwood  got  up,  his  tall  figure  unfolding  itself  not  quite 
erectly,  for  his  shoulders  showed  the  effect  of  prolonged  desk- 
work.  He  glowered  down  at  Alexandra  Warren  as  she  looked 
up  at  him,  a  capable  woman  in  the  middle  thirties,  a  libra- 
rian in  one  of  the  great  city  libraries,  well  dressed,  alert, 
really  attractive  in  a  way  which  didn't  specially  interest  him. 


22  FOURSQUARE 

He  knew  her  principally  as  Mary  Fletcher's  friend,  who  lived 
with  her  in  this  rather  luxurious  small  apartment,  and  made  it 
possible  for  him  to  come  here  now  and  then — when  Mary 
would  permit  it,  to  "talk  shop"  with  this  one  of  his  con- 
tributors who  wouldn't  give  him  half  as  much  of  her  work 
as  he  wanted  for  his  prosperous  magazine. 

"Well,"  he  said,  with  a  shrug  of  his  thin  shoulders, 
"if  it's  the  clothes  question  which  is  chiefly  absorbing  our 
young  friend,  perhaps  I  needn't  fear  she'll  take  her  visit  to 
the  country  too  seriously.  You  say  she  means  to  stay  a 
year.  I'll  give  her  three  months — no,  I'll  give  her  six,  since 
spring  and  summer  are  pretty  decent  up  that  way.  But 
let  fall  come,  with  the  theatres  and  the  concerts  beginning, 
and  the  leaves  dropping  in  the  Park,  the  Palisades  a  mass 
of  colour  in  the  sunshine,  and  she'll  come  back — like  a  homing 
pigeon.  Mark  my  words,  by  October  she'll  come  back. 
And  in  November  she'll  begin  the  new  book — in  New  York — 
the  book  she  couldn't  get  in  the  country!" 

He  picked  up  his  hat,  his  odd,  half-cynical  smile  showing 
in  the  corners  of  his  well-cut  lips. 

"I'm  sorry  you're  so  unhappy  about  it  all,"  Alexandra 
said.  "And  of  course  you  know  Mary's  truly  sorry  not  to 
have  kept  her  appointment." 

"Oh,  don't  bother  to  say  that,"  he  told  her.  "If  she'd 
really  not  wanted  to  miss  the  appointment  she'd  have  cut 
the  tailor  and  come  home.  I  don't  believe  in  that  tailor  at 
all,  you  know — I  don't  think  she's  been  near  one — not  at 
this  hour,  anyhow.  One  excuse  will  do  as  well  as  another. 
We  quarrelled  violently  the  other  evening  over  this  plan  of 
hers;  she  didn't  even  tell  me  when  she's  going.  Perhaps  you'll 
let  me  know  that?  I  might  at  least  have  the  satisfaction  of 
sending  her  some  flowers  and  magazines  for  the  journey." 

"Why,  of  course.  She  would  want  you  to  know.  She 
goes  to-morrow  night,  on  the  ten-five." 


AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  23 

Kirkwood  was  frowning  again.  He  was  in  a  very  bad 
humour  indeed  or  he  wouldn't  have  said  what  he  did  next. 
"The  truth  is,  Miss  Warren,  you  yourself  are  much  to  blame. 
If  you'd  taken  a  stand,  said  you  couldn't  be  left  alone,  told 
her  you  needed  her Oh,  well,  you're  so  provincial  your- 
self, in  spite  of  your  years  here — you  couldn't  be  expected  to 
see  what  a  mistake  she's  making." 

"Couldn't  I?"  Alexandra  quite  naturally  stiffened  a 
little  at  this  accusation.  "Mr.  Kirkwood,  if  you  had  known 
Mary's  earlier  life,  at  the  School,  with  her  wonderful  father 
as  headmaster,  and  her  beautiful  mother  making  such  an 
atmosphere  of  home  for  all  those  boys,  you  wouldn't  wonder 
that  the  country — such  country — calls  her  back  pretty 
loudly  now.  The  School,  you  know,  is  just  by  itself,  a  great 
settlement  in  a  tiny  village — oh,  such  a  delightful  place!" 

"She  isn't  going  back  there." 

"No,  but  Newcomb  College  is  only  twenty  miles  away. 
She  plans  to  go  over  to  the  School,  now  and  then.  She's 
never  been  there,  since  Doctor  and  Mrs.  Fletcher  were 
brought  back  and  buried — at  Newcomb,  in  the  old  family 
plot.  Miss  Graham — Mrs.  Fletcher's  sister — still  lives 
there.  Why,  it's  all  so  natural,  Mr.  Kirkwood,  that  now, 
with  the  first  edge  off  her  sorrow,  she  should  want  to  go  back. 
I  don't  see  how  you " 

The  editor  had  an  unmannerly  trick  of  interrupting 
people,  particularly  when  they  weren't  saying  anything  he 
considered  worth  his  time  to  listen  to.  He  did  it  now,  as  he 
moved  toward  the  door. 

"All  that's  neither  here  nor  there!"  he  snapped.  "The 
thing  that  does  matter  is  that  she  should  destroy  her  chances 
for  doing  big,  significant  work  by  going  off  for  a  year,  burn- 
ing her  bridges,  getting  out  of  touch  with  everything  that 
could  stimulate  her,  coming  into  contact  with  everything 
that  can  depress  and  chill  her — I  tell  you  it's  a  crime.1'9 


24  FOURSQUARE 

He  had  told  her  this  so  many  times  that  she  hardly  needed 
to  have  him  state  it  again,  but  she  listened  in  silence  until 
he  had  said  the  last  word,  understanding  that  at  the  bottom 
of  his  irritation  was  undoubtedly  a  concern  for  more  than 
Mary's  art.  He  had  never  posed  as  other  than  a  good  friend 
and  sharp  critic,  who  considered  that  he  had  brought  out 
the  young  writer  in  the  beginning,  had  taught  her  much 
of  her  craft,  and  had  reaped  his  reward  in  her  striking,  if 
more  or  less  superficial,  success  of  the  following  years.  It 
was  none  the  less  easy  for  Alexandra  to  see  that,  whether  he 
knew  it  or  not,  a  large  part  of  his  disappointment  over  Mary's 
plans  was  caused  by  his  sense  of  personal  loss.  Now  that  she 
was  back  in  his  world  he  wanted  to  keep  her  there;  that  was 
the  truth  of  the  matter. 

Alexandra  saw  him  depart  at  last  with  a  decided  sense  of 
pity  for  him,  though  he  was  by  no  means  the  sort  of  person 
who  often  inspires  pity.  Mary  owed  him  for  much  very 
tangible  help  in  the  beginning  of  her  career — if  it  was  to  be  a 
career,  as  it  promised.  She  had  been  rather  hard  on  him 
to-night,  for  no  conceivable  reason.  She  had  seen  more 
than  ever  of  him  since  her  return  from  France;  and  now 
to  miss  this  final  appointment  with  him  seemed  hardly 
fair. 

Ten  minutes  after  the  editor  had  gone  the  door  opened 
again,  and  was  closed  with  a  decided  bang  behind  the  sub- 
ject of  the  last  hour's  discussion. 

"Why,  Mary!" 

"Yes,  I  know.  I  met  him — at  the  subway  entrance. 
Such  hard  luck.  Now — Fm  going  to  dinner  and  a  play 
with  him — to  keep  the  peace.  Why  didn't  you  get  him  off 
sooner?" 

"My  dear,  you  said  you  were  staying  downtown.  But  of 
course  I  might  have  known " 


AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  25 

"That  Pd  do  the  erratic  thing?  If  I  didn't  you'd  almost 
be  disappointed,  wouldn't  you,  Sandy?" 

She  looked  like  that — she  looked  exactly  like  that,  Alex- 
andra Warren  thought — as  if  she  would  do  the  erratic  thing. 
Just  what  it  was  about  her  that  kept  one  watching  her — as 
her  friend  watched  her  now — it  is  difficult  to  tell.  The  fact 
was  that  one  did  watch  her,  study  her,  enjoy  her — even  when 
she  was  most  trying  to  one's  sense  of  responsibility  and  judg- 
ment. 

She  stood  for  a  minute  on  the  hearth-rug,  before  one  of 
those  gas  grates  which  pass  for  fireplaces  in  such  apartments, 
resting  her  arms  upon  the  chimneypiece  and  looking  down 
at  the  play  of  small  orange  and  blue  flames.  She  had 
thrown  a  wide  cape  of  brown  beaver  upon  a  chair,  and  stood, 
'  slim  figure  in  a  brown  tailored  suit,  a  tight  little  brown 
hit  edged  with  beaver  pulled  down  over  her  hair.  She  was 
all  brown,  was  Mary  Fletcher,  from  her  bronze-brown  hair 
to  her  slim,  high-arched  feet.  Even  her  face  held  tints  of 
brown  in  its  pallor — and  the  pallor  was  new.  Before 
Mary  went  to  France  richly  soft  hues  of  rose  had  mingled 
with  the  slight  duskiness  of  her  brunette  colouring;  they  were 
all  gone  now.  Deep  shadows  lay  beneath  her  eyes — yes, 
Mary  was  tired,  no  doubt  of  that.  Even  so  nothing  could 
quite  subdue  a  certain  amazing  vitality  in  her. 

"He  said  the  tailor  was  a  myth,"  said  Alexander  Warren. 
"I  begin  to  think  he  is  myself." 

"No  myth  at  all,  as  you  very  well  know.  I've  just  come 
from  the  fitting,  quite  as  I  said.  I  bribed  him  heavily  to  get 
in  two  in  one  day — and  finish  the  suit  by  noon  to-morrow. 
And  it  was  quite  true  that  I  was  staying  downtown — only 
I  meant  to  stay  just  long  enough  to  let  John  Kirkwood  get 
away.  Oh — I  don't  want  to  go  out  with  him  to-night !  But 
when  I  met  him — my  ridiculous  heart  failed  me,  he  looked  so 
miserable.  I  really  do  owe  him  for  a  lot,  don't  I  ?  So  I'm 


26  FOURSQUARE 

going — on  one  condition — that  he  doesn't  say  one  more  word 
to  me  about  my  year  at  Newcomb." 

"I  doubt  if  you  can  hold  him  to  that  condition." 

"I  can — and  will.  He  understands.  One  word — and  I'll 
be  lost  to  him. — Well,  he'll  be  back  in  an  hour.  Shall  I  go  as 
I  am — or  dress?" 

"I  think  you'd  better  do  him  the  honour  of  dressing,  since 
it's  the  last  time  for  a  year.  Besides,  you'll  enjoy  the  whole 
evening  more." 

"And  feel  less  grubby.  I  do  feel  grubby — and  look  it. 
Here  goes,  then.  Only  it's  a  shame  J  can't  have  this  last 
evening  with  you.  Will  you  promise  to  wait  up  for  me? 
You  can  have  a  cat-nap  on  the  dawy — and  we'll  talk  till 
morning." 

"We'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  We  can  talk  all  day  to- 
morrow, and  you  need  the  sleep.  Don't  bother  about  me — 
I've  any  number  of  letters  to  get  off  to-night." 

Alexandra  followed  her  friend  into  Mary's  own  room, 
went  on  into  the  tiny  bathroom  where  she  drew  a  full  tub, 
and  then,  with  the  soft  sound  of  splashing  in  her  ears,  got 
out  the  one  semi-evening  gown  left  provisionally  out  of  the 
early  packing  and  laid  it,  with  its  underlying  accessories,  on 
the  bed. 

She  was  rewarded  presently  by  the  feel  of  two  cool,  satiny 
arms  about  her  neck,  a  fresh  and  fragrant  cheek  against  her 
own  face,  and  a  low,  revived  voice  in  her  ear. 

"Oh,  what  doesn't  a  hot  tub  do  for  one?  I'm  all  made 
over  new — temporarily.  If  you'd  just  be  angel  enough  to 
do  my  hair — No,  that's  selfish  of  me!" 

"I  want  to  do  it.  Sit  down,  and  I'll  play  maid.  You 
don't  let  me  often  enough — and  somehow — to-night 

"Yes,  I  know.  You're  feeling  ridiculously  soft  toward 
me,  because  we're  almost  at  the  parting.  It's  probably  a 
good  thing  I'm  not  to  be  here. — We  should  be  a  couple  of 


AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  27 

sentimental  pussy  cats,  purring  on  each  other's  necks — 
and  we'd  both  hate  that." 

Alexandra  combed  and  brushed  the  heavy  brown  looks 
with  care  and  skill,  trying  to  forget  that  her  heart  was  ach- 
ing rather  heavily.  It  had  meant  so  much  to  her  to  live  with 
Mary  Fletcher  for  three  crowded,  interesting  years — not 
counting  the  eighteen  months  of  war  service.  Before  that 
her  own  life  had  been  dull  enough — it  would  be  dull  again, 
now  that  she  was  to  return  to  the  suburban  home  from  which 
she  would  come  in  every  day  for  the  hours  in  the  library 
where  she  sat  behind  a  desk.  But  there  was  nothing  else  to 
do.  Nobody  else  would  want  her — there  was  nobody  else 
she  wanted.  She  would  never  forget  the  day  when  Mary 
Fletcher,  standing  with  her  among  the  bookstacks  in  a  re- 
mote corner  of  the  high-ceiled  quiet  place,  had  suddenly  said 
with  that  convincing  eagerness  which  people  found  so  irresis- 
tible: "Oh,  would  you  come  and  help  me  make  home  out 
of  a  little  apartment?  Somehow  I  know  we'd  get  on!  I've 
been  so  attracted  by  you  for  so  long.  Do  you  imagine  you 
could  stand  living  with  me?  It's  a  frightful  test,  you 
know!" 

Stand  living  with  that  vital  creature  who,  however  ex- 
acting or  trying  she  might  prove  to  be,  could  never  by  any 
possibility  be  boring?  The  efficient  librarian's  life  had  long 
ago  become  such  a  monotonous  round  of  daily  routine  she 
would  have  welcomed  any  prospect  calculated  to  enliven  it. 
She  had  never  found  occasion  to  regret  the  partnership  thus 
formed.  With  all  her  varying  moods  and  caprices,  Mary 
had  been  eminently  fair — as,  for  all  her  weariness,  she  was 
fair  to-night. 

"Thank  you,  Sandy  dear,  that's  perfect.  I  don't  let  you 
maid  me  very  often,  do  I  ?  But  it's  a  comfort  to-night,  I'm 
so  fagged.  Now  for  the  frock — it's  a  pretty  frock,  isn't  it? 
I  wonder  when  I  shall  wear  it  again!  At  some  staid  college 


28  FOURSQUARE 

festivity,  I  suppose,  where  I  shall  have  to  be  as  demure  as  a 
professor's  wife." 

The  apartment  bell  rang — Miss  Warren  answered.  She 
came  back  with  a  square  florist's  box,  at  sight  of  which  Mary 
laughed  relentingly. 

"The  sinner — he  means  to  get  under  my  guard  to-night, 
doesn't  he? — with  his  orchids  and  his  dinners  and  plays." 

She  pinned  on  the  delicate  cluster,  gave  a  last  touch  with 
a  powder  puff  to  throat  and  chin  and  the  white  flesh 
below  before  she  thrust  a  scarf  of  tulle  about  her  neck, 
and  let  Alexandra  lay  a  graceful,  fur-lined  wrap  about  her 
shoulders. 

"  Good-night — and  I'm  all  fresh  and  rested  and  ready  to 
make  the  most  of  my  last  night  in  the  Big  Town,  even  if  I 
didn't  want  to  go.  I  rather  do,  now.  But — I'm  going  to 
harden  my  heart,  just  the  same!" 

She  left  the  lightest  of  caresses  on  her  friend's  cheek,  when 
she  went  down,  a  few  minutes  later,  in  answer  to  a  summons 
from  the  hall  boy.  From  the  window  high  above,  Alexandra 
looked  down  at  the  waiting  cab,  and  saw  the  two  figures,  one 
exaggeratedly  tall  and  slim  in  top  hat  and  long  coat,  the 
other  but  shoulder-high  beside  it,  cross  the  walk  and  get  in. 
She  drew  a  long  sigh  of  loneliness.  After  all,  though  she 
had  wanted  her  to  go,  it  was  rather  hard  to  have  Mary  away 
on  this  last  evening. 

It  was  quite  another  John  Kirkwood  than  the  one  who  had 
given  vent  to  such  bitter  complaining  an  hour  before,  who 
drove  away  with  Mary  Fletcher  in  the  taxi  over  the  wintry 
streets.  He  had  worked  faster  than  she  to  accomplish  it 
all  and  find  time  to  dress  as  well,  and  he  was  exultant,  though 
he  tried  not  to  show  it  overmuch.  Also,  he  was  fairly  well 
content  to  live  up  to  her  decree,  that  he  was  not  to  mention 
the  sore  subiect  which  had  so  nearly  wrought  division  be- 


AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  29 

tween  them.  He  had  now  set  his  mind  on  making  a  farewell 
impression  upon  her  memory  which  should  return  to  her 
once  and  again,  on  the  evenings  of  the  months  to  come,  when 
she  would  be  trying  to  endure  the  monotony  of  the  quiet 
college  town. 

He  saw  with  triumph,  as  the  evening  advanced,  that  his 
skillful  work  was  telling  as,  knowing  Mary  Fletcher  pretty 
well,  he  had  been  sure  it  was  bound  to  do.  Throughout  the 
dinner  his  companion  had  shown  indications  of  courteously 
disguised  indifference  to  his  wiles,  in  spite  of  the  care  with 
which  he  had  selected  the  place  and  ordered  the  tempting 
food.  It  was  exactly  the  sort  of  thing  she  had  been  wont  to 
enjoy — the  elegance  of  the  softly  lighted  room,  the  gaily 
alluring  music,  the  varied  metropolitan  types  of  people  all 
about.  Yet  he  had  felt  that  guard  of  hers  well  up,  felt  it  in 
the  entire  absence  of  the  usual  sparkling  flow  of  her  talk; 
she  was  so  quiet  he  could  hardly  think  it  was  quite  Mary 
who  sat  opposite  him.  Her  appeal  to  him,  however,  wai 
hardly  the  less  on  this  account;  rather  did  it  interest  and 
challenge  him. 

But  later,  at  the  end  of  the  third  act  of  a  brilliant  play,  one 
he  had  counted  upon  to  absorb  and  thrill  her  with  the  per- 
fection of  its  art,  both  literary  and  histrionic,  he  looked  down 
at  her  and  saw  more  than  a  touch  of  that  which  he  had  hoped 
to  bring  to  her  expressive  face.  She  hadn't  been  able  to  re- 
sist it — it  had  taken  her  off  her  feet.  She  still  wanted  not 
to  let  him  see  that  she  minded  whether  or  not  she  saw  or 
heard  anything  more  like  that  for  a  year,  but  she  couldn't 
wholly  conceal  it.  And  with  a  certain  frank  generosity  of 
hers  which  he  particularly  liked,  she  wasn't  willing  to  with- 
hold the  acknowledgment  of  appreciation  which  was  cer- 
tainly due. 

"Oh,  what  craftsmanship!"  she  said.  "That  dialogue — 
was  there  ever  anything  so  clever  ?  The  sheer  genius  of  it — 


30  FOURSQUARE 

it's  so  amazing  that  anybody  can  get  way,  way  in  to  human 
thoughts  and  motives  like  that!" 

"Isn't  it?  If  ever  the  mirror  was  held  up  to  Nature,  he 
holds  it — and  doesn't  miss  a  reflection.  I  always  thought 
him  by  all  odds  the  greatest  playwright  of  them  all,  but  he's 
outdone  himself  in  this." 

"And  yet,  it's  all  so  simple — so  without  strain  for  effect. 
That  climax — what  could  be  quieter?" 

"Nothing.     Nor  more  tremendous." 

"Oh,  yes — tremendous.  There's  no  other  word.  And  of 
course  the  acting  is  perfect.  What  a  joy  it  must  be  to  have 
such  lines  to  read." 

"Do  you  know "  he  began,  looking  down  at  bis  pro- 
gramme and  turning  its  pages  lightly,  as  if  the  moment 
hadn't  come  for  which  he  had  been  playing  and  as  if  he 
weren't  thinking  very  carefully  how  he  should  put  the  thing 
he  wanted  to  say — "there  have  been  places  all  along  in  this 
play — in  the  turn  of  a  phrase  here  and  there,  the  sudden 
unexpected  force  of  a  word — which  reminded  me  inevit- 
ably of — you?" 

"No!"  She  glanced  at  him  skeptically.  "Oh,  no — of 
course  not!" 

"Yes."  He  spoke  thoughtfully  and  gravely,  as  if  the  idea 
had  only  just  occurred  to  him  and  he  was  turning  it  over 
and  looking  at  it  on  both  sides.  "I  didn't  recognize  it  at 
first,  the  play  of  wit  and  wisdom  was  so  swift  I  was  left 
breathless.  But  after  a  time,  I  began  to  wonder  why  there 
was  something  so  familiar,  here  and  there,  in  the  use  of 
words — in  the  way  of  putting  things.  And  then  it  came  to 
me — it  is  Mary  Fletcher,  with  the  strokes  a  little  heavier,  the 
lines  drawn  with  a  bit  of  extra  finish.  Why  shouldn't  it  be 
so?  He's  a  master — you're  not  even  a  pupil  of  his.  But — 
you  might  be.  You  have  all  the  marks." 

She  was  silent.     He  waited.     He  thought  her  breath  came 


AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  31 

a  trifle  more  rapidly  than  before;  the  orchids  seemed  to  stir 
and  flutter  below  her  breast.  He  didn't  think  it  safe  to  look 
directly  at  her.  After  a  minute,  however,  he  did  venture  to 
add  one  more  touch  to  his  effort  to  reach  her. 

"I  think — if  you  will  let  me  say  so — that  you  have  the 
genius,  too.  And — may  I  remind  you? — I've  never  said 
just  that  to  you  before." 

A  little  laugh  came  then,  and  a  quick  thrust  back. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Kirkwood — you're  the  genius,  to  put  such  a 
thought  into  my  head !  It's  absolutely  untrue,  but  of  course 
you  know  it  will  work  and  work  in  my  brain,  and  be  my  un- 
doing." 

"It  should  be  your  making."  He  looked  at  her  now,  still 
gravely,  refusing  to  answer  her  comprehending  smile.  She 
had  seen  through  him,  he  realized  that;  yet — the  strange 
thing  about  flattery  is  that  it  seldom  fails  of  its  mark,  though 
it  may  seem  to  glance  off  quickly  enough  thereafter.  "It 
should  be  your  making,"  he  repeated.  "To  have  your 
ability  shine  so  clearly  that  the  type  of  it — the  class — the 
amazingly  high  class — is  instantly  recognized  by  one  who 
knows  your  work  as  I  do — that  should  be  a  magnificent 
stimulus,  and  an  absolutely  justifiable  one." 

"You  know  perfectly  that  I  could  no  more  touch  such 
work  than  I  could — reach  that  electrolier  above  us." 

"Not  yet,  perhaps — though  I'm  not  so  sure.  And  the 
current  that  makes  that  electrolier  blaze  so  brilliantly  is  pre- 
cisely the  same  sort  as  that  which  lights  these  small  side  lights 
over  here.  Run  that  current  anywhere — it's  bound  to  pro- 
duce light.  In  your  case — I  don't  think  you  half  realize 
how  high  the  voltage  is." 

"You  shouldn't  try  to  raise  it — you  might  burn  out  the 
fuse,"  she  said  gaily,  to  hide  the  real  stirring  of  the  thing  in 
her  brain  which  it  was  impossible  not  to  recognize  when  the 
stimulus  was  applied.  It  was  not  the  first  time  she  had 


32  FOURSQUARE 

felt  it  in  his  company — he  had  a  trick  of  applying  that  stim- 
ulus in  a  way  which  had  many  times  produced  the  result 
he  wished.  How  often,  she  remembered,  he  had  been  able 
to  say  the  word,  suggest  the  idea,  which  had  brought  forth 
in  due  time  the  will  to  work  which  must  come  before  the  most 
inventive  mind  can  make  its  inventions  live. 

"Ah,  I  knew  you'd  shy  away  from  such  a  suggestion/' 
he  said,  in  a  disappointed  tone.  "I  never  knew  anybody 
who  so  persistently  refused  to  be  rated  where  she  belongs. 
Never  mind.  When  you  bring  out  your  first  real  book,  then 
— you  will  capture  the  audience  I  covet  for  you.  The  thing 
I'm  anxious  about " 

He  looked  down  at  her,  at  her  bent  head — a  small,  fine 
head,  with  adorable  lines  of  profile  and  cheek.  Her  hands 
clasped  in  her  lap  were  holding  themselves  still  by  force — he 
easily  detected  that. 

"You've  forbidden  me  to  say  one  word  on  a  certain  sub- 
ject," he  went  on  slowly.  "If  you  hold  me  to  that " 

"I  do." 

"Then  it's  going  to  be  difficult  to  say  the  other  thing 
that  engrosses  my  thought.  It's  about  your  work.  Surely, 
on  this  last  night  we'll  be  together  for  so  long,  you'll  let  me 
talk  a  little  more  about  that.  You  always  have.  Why 
should  you  put  an  embargo  upon  me  now? — Please — be  a 
little  merciful.  You  really  don't  know  how  it  hurts." 

She  glanced  up,  saw  the  tenseness  of  the  lines  about  his 
mouth,  and  looked  away  again,  seeming  to  hesitate. 

"You  haven't  forgiven  me — I've  seen  it  plainly  all  the 
evening,"  he  went  on  rapidly,  lest  at  any  moment  he  should 
catch  the  wink  of  the  orchestra's  signal  light  which  would 
mean  the  raising  of  the  curtain  on  the  last  act.  "Won't 
you  forget  that  last  argument  we  had  when  I  said  so  many 
hasty  and  excited  things  I  didn't  mean — at  least,  not  as  they 
sounded  ?  I've  meant  to  be  a  good  friend  to  you — you  know 


AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  33 

that — always.  Whatever  you  do — or  forbid  me — I  can 
never  be  anything  else." 

"You  have  been  a  friend — I've  never  doubted  that," 
she  admitted.  "I  owe  you  more  than  I  can  ever  pay  back." 

"You  have  paid  it — a  thousand  times  over.  All  I  want 
now  is  to  put  into  your  mind  the  thought  that — when  you 
come  to  plan  the  book,  even  though  you  do  it  a  long  way 
from  here — you  can't  quite  leave  John  Kirkwood  out  of  it. 
I  think  it's  helped  you,  in  the  past,  to  talk  things  over  with 
me.  Won't  you  show  that  you  forgive  me  for  my  blunders 
by  promising  me  that  when  you  begin  actually  to  think 
out  your  new  scheme  for  work,  you'll — at  least  let  me  know? 
I  can't  tell  you  quite  how  unhappy  I  shall  be  if  you  won't." 

She  did  not  answer  at  once,  and  while  she  waited  the  signal 
he  was  dreading  came,  the  curtain  rose,  and  instantly  she 
was  lost  to  him  in  the  magic  spell  put  upon  her  by  the  scene 
across  the  footlights.  He  couldn't  wholly  follow  her  into 
that  land  of  unreality,  he  was  still  so  very  anxious  fully  to 
make  his  peace  with  her.  But  he  was  sufficiently  aware  of 
the  beauty  and  potency  of  the  dramatic  climax  of  the  stage 
play  to  await  hopefully  its  effect  upon  her.  As  he  well  knew, 
she  was  intensely  susceptible  to  emotional  suggestion,  and 
if  she  were  to  fall  at  last  into  the  mood  he  had  believed  the 
experience  of  the  evening  might  bring  upon  her,  she  would 
for  the  time  being  become  as  clay  in  his  hands. 

The  curtain  fell.  He  put  her  cloak  upon  her,  got  into  his 
own  coat,  and  they  moved  up  the  aisle  without  speaking.  He 
wa,s  somewhat  baffled  by  her  silence;  she  had  kept  her  head 
turned  away  from  him  to  the  very  door.  Was  it  agitation  ? 
he  wondered — and  thought  it  must  be  so.  It  wasn't  pos- 
sible for  Mary  Fletcher,  as  he  had  known  her,  to  resist  that 
climax;  it  had  been  all  that  art  could  make  it. 

He  glanced  furtively  again  and  again  at  that  turned  away 
profile  as  they  made  their  slow  progress  from  theatre  door  to 


34  FOURSQUARE 

their  cab,  which  was  far  down  the  line  and  had  to  be  waited 
for.  He  thought,  as  he  had  thought  many  times  before  in 
such  places,  that  among  all  the  women  about  them,  their 
attractions  enhanced  by  every  trick  of  dress  and  adornment, 
Mary  Fletcher  possessed  something  which  set  her  apart. 
Far  more  beautiful  women  elbowed  her  on  either  side, 
priceless  furs  and  costly  wraps  of  all  sorts  made  her  more 
simple  evening  attire  insignificant  by  contrast,  her  slender 
figure  was  dwarfed  by  many  a  gorgeous,  towering  creature 
who  looked  down  upon  her  with  supercilious  eyes — yet — yes, 
there  was  something  about  her  which  made  him  supremely 
content  to  be  there  by  her  side,  and  to  try  as  best  he  might  to 
protect  her  from  the  pressure  of  the  departing  crowd. 

They  were  in  their  cab  at  last,  and  out  of  the  block  which 
always  impedes  traffic  at  a  playhouse  door. 

"Well?  Would  you  mind  putting  a  poor  editor  and  be- 
seeching friend  out  of  his  misery?'* 

She  spoke  without  looking  at  him.  Her  eyes  were  upon 
the  flying  lights  outside  the  cab  windows,  but  her  voice  was 
kind. 

"Just  what  do  you  want  me  to  say?" 

"That  the  line  holds.  That's  all  I'll  ask  for — that  is, 
I'll  try  to  be  satisfied  with  that." 

"I  don't  throw  over  my  friends  for  a  misunderstanding, 
John  Kirkwood.  Of  course  the  line  holds." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  then  Kirkwood  laughed — a 
rather  bitter  little  laugh. 

"Man  is  never  satisfied — but  I'll  try  to  be.  I'd  hoped 
that  the  evening  and  the  play  would 

"I  know,"  she  said  evenly.  "You  expected  it  to  take  me 
where  I'm  weakest,  get  hold  of  my  imagination,  and  make 
me  sorry  that  I'm  going.  Well,  you  may  be  content.  It 
has  taken  hold  of  my  imagination — that  terribly  dangerous 
imagination  of  mine  that  has  such  control  of  me.  I  went 


AN  EDITOR  PROPHESIES  35 

as  mad  over  that  wonderful  play  as  you  could  hope  I  would, 
was  as  crazy  to  do  something  like  it — afar  off — in  my  line  as  I 
could  compass.  I'm  just  as  much  afire  with  a  perfectly 
futile  longing  to  do  a  big,  brilliant  thing  that  would  take 
everybody  off  his  feet  as  I  ever  was  in  my  life.  The  only 
difference  is " 

He  thought  she  was  never  going  to  find  the  ending  to 
that  sentence.  "Yes?"  he  prompted  her  at  last,  with  a 
glance  at  the  number  of  the  street  they  were  passing  in  their 
flight  uptown.  "The  only  difference  is " 

"It's  that — for  the  first  time  in  my  history  I've — lost  con- 
fidence in  myself.  I'm  going  away — to  find  it." 

"Oh,  for  heaven's  sake!"  Instantly  he  was  his  old  in- 
sistent, professional  self.  "Why,  you  were  never  so  equipped 
to  do  the  big  thing.  You're  merely  tired — you've  over- 
worked. I'm  really  glad  myself  you're  to  have  a  rest.  As 
soon  as  you've  had  it  you'll  be  yourself  again.  Then — the 
fires  will  burn.  And  then — I  want  to  be  at  hand  to  pour  on 
the  oil." 

She  looked  round  at  him  at  last.  There  was  only  one 
block  more  to  go.  Her  eyes  were  dark  with  unhappiness,  but 
she  smiled  at  him  like  her  old  self,  as  far  as  friendliness  was 
concerned. 

"When  I  find  I  need  the  oil — that  you  so  well  know  how 
to  pour — I'll  send  for  you.  I'm  quite  willing  to  admit  I 
may  find  it  hard  to  do  without  you.  You've  given  me  so 
much — I  haven't  been  half  grateful  enough. — Thank  you  for 
a  delightful  evening — I'm  so  glad  I  gave  in  and  let  you  take 
me. — There,  have  I  made  amends  at  all?  You've  no  idea 
how  hard  it  is  for  a  woman  to  do  that  when  she's  been  a  bit 
unkind.  I  don't  know  why  it  is  so  hard!" 

He  held  the  hand  she  offered  him  close  for  a  minute,  then 
as  she  drew  it  away  he  said  slowly:  "I'm  going  to  believe 
that  generous  speech  makes  it  all  right  between  us.  Talk 


36  FOURSQUARE 

«jf  things  being  hard — please  don't  mind  my  saying  that  I 
never  dreamed  anything  could  be  so  hard  as  it  is  to  let  you 

go." 

"I  may  come  back — sometime,"  she  said  without  turning 
her  head  toward  him. 

"I  pray  you  will.  If  I  didn't  count  on  that —  He 

let  the  sentence  end  there,  with  a  suppressed  breath  she 
couldn't  fail  to  hear. 

After  that  there  were  only  a  few  words  of  leave-taking  at 
the  door  of  the  elevator  in  the  apartment-house  lobby.  As 
Mary  Fletcher  was  borne  upward  she  leaned  against  the 
side  of  the  car,  her  head  drooping  like  the  flowers  beneath  her 
breast. 

Inside  her  own  door  she  laid  that  head  for  a  moment 
upon  the  shoulder  Alexandra  Warren  presented  when  she 
saw  the  shadows  under  her  friend's  eyes. 

"Sandy,"  Mary  said,  with  some  difficulty,  "I  know  now 
how  the  Lord  felt  when  the  devil  led  Him  up  to  the  top  of  the 
mountain  and  showed  Him  all  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth. 
The  only  difference  between  Him  and  me  is  that  He  refused 
them  knowing  He  could  have  them,  and  I — refuse  them 
only  because — I  can't  get  them! — And  so — I'm  going  to  bed. 
At  least,  when  one  can't  have  the  kingdoms  of  this  earth, 
she  can  always  go  to  bed.  And  just  possibly — she'll  sleep. 
I'm  only  afraid — she  can't!" 


CHAPTER  III 
A  COLLEGE  TOWN 


THINK,  Bates,"  said  Miss  Graham, 
anxiously  leaning  forward  to  reach  her 
driver  on  the  front  seat  of  the  surrey, 
"we  shall  need  to  make  a  little  haste." 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  Bates  responded, 
touching  his  fur  cap.  "That  train's  li- 
able to  be  late,  though,  Miss  Graham." 

Nevertheless,  he  sent  the  two  well- 
groomed  fat  horses  along  at  what  was 
for  them  quite  a  spanking  pace.  Miss 
Graham  had  never  cared  to  exchange 
her  beloved  chestnut  horses  for  a  mo- 
tor car.  The  well  kept  equipage  had 
none  the  less  a  certain  distinction 
upon  the  streets  of  the  college  town, 
since  it  was  known  to  come  from 
"the  old  Graham  place"  with  its  tall 
white  pillars  and  its  air  of  old-time 
hospitality. 

The  surrey  swung  around  into  the 
station  driveway,  and  came  to  a 
standstill  behind  the  building.  Miss 
Graham  alighted  promptly. 

"I  will  go  myself  to  meet  her, 
Bates,"  she  said.  "I  think  the 
horses  may  be  a  little  restive  when 
the  train  comes  in." 

37 


38  FOURSQUARE 

"Yes,  ma'am — they  may  be,  not  having  been  to  train 
much  all  winter.  Miss  Mary  can  hold  'em  while  I  get  her 
luggage — she'll  be  liking  to,  I'm  thinking,  if  she's  not 
changed." 

"We  shall  find  her  much  the  same  in  such  ways,  I  imagine, 
Bates.  Indeed,  she  spoke  of  you  and  the  horses  in  her  last 
letter." 

Bates  glowed  with  pleasure.  He  had  been  meeting  Mary 
at  this  same  station  since  she  was  a  small  girl,  when  the  fat 
old  horses  had  been  the  shyest  of  lively  young  colts,  and  even 
then  she  had  been  wild  to  "hold  them" — and  could  do  it, 
too,  after  a  little  of  Bates'  training. 

Miss  Graham  paced  the  station  platform  restlessly  until  the 
train  came  in,  a  pleasant  figure  for  any  arriving  guest  to  find 
awaiting  her.  Her  sensitive  face,  beneath  the  soft  gray 
plumes  of  her  becoming  hat,  was  pink  with  delicate  colour; 
her  small  form,  wrapped  in  rich  gray  furs,  was  carried  very 
erect. 

"She's  all  the  lady,"  thought  the  devoted  Bates,  watch- 
ing her,  as  he  had  done  a  thousand  times  before.  "Look  at 
her  now,  beside  all  those  other  women  talking  and  laughing 
so  loud.  She  lives  in  a  world  by  herself,  does  Miss  Sara 
Graham — and  belongs  there." 

The  train  came  in.  Bates,  though  his  hands  were  busy 
with  his  horses,  had  one  eye  for  the  station  platform,  and 
presently  saw  a  slim  figure  in  brown  run  along  it,  saw  a  vivid, 
laughing  face  he  well  remembered,  and  shifting  the  reins  into 
one  hand  touched  his  cap  in  answer  to  a  happy  hail  as  Mary 
Fletcher  came  close. 

"Oh,  Batesy!"  A  firm  gloved  hand  gave  his  big  gaunt- 
leted  one  a  friendly  grip — he  had  no  chance  to  remove  the 
covering,  with  the  horses  prancing  a  little  as  the  train  got 
under  way  again.  "I'm  so  glad  to  see  you!  And  kere  are 
Billy  and  Tom,  looking  as  young  as  ever.  I'd  forgotten 


A  COLLEGE  TOWN  39 

horses  could  shine  like  that. — You  don't  mind  my  calling 
you  Batesy  still,  do  you?  It's  so  like  getting  home  to  see 
you!" 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you  looking  so  well,  Miss  Mary.  Mind? 
I'd  be  hurt  if  you  didn't,"  grinned  Bates.  "Want  to  hold  the 
horses,  Miss  Mary,  while  I  get  your  things  in?" 

"Of  course  I  want  to."  She  was  up  in  the  front  seat  at 
the  word,  kept  the  horses  in  order,  and  when  Bates  came 
back  with  the  small  leather  trunk,  a  typewriter  in  a  pigskin 
case,  and  a  big  hamper  of  fruit  from  a  city  market,  helped 
him  stow  them,  making  merry  comment  all  the  while  and 
causing  him  to  chuckle  with  amusement. 

All  the  way  up  the  village  street  her  eager  eyes  were  scan- 
ning the  familiar  landmarks,  and  when  they  passed  the 
"green"  upon  which  stood  a  certain  white  church  with  a  tall 
spire,  she  leaned  to  look  back  at  it  till  it  was  out  of  sight. 
Miss  Graham  understood.  In  that  church  Mary's  father 
and  mother  had  been  married,  and  from  it  they  had  been 
borne  to  their  burial.  There  was  no  gay  talk  from  Mary's 
lips  while  the  old  horses  trotted  soberly  by  the  old  church. 
But  when  they  were  well  past  and  were  proceeding  more 
slowly  up  the  long  hill,  half  way  up  which  lay  the  Graham 
house,  and  upon  whose  summit  stood  the  group  of  college 
buildings  which  overlooked  the  town,  Mary's  hand  came 
upon  her  aunt's  with  a  close  pressure. 

"I  didn't  know  how  I  loved  it  all  till  I  came  back  to  it  this 
time,"  she  said,  in  a  low,  moved  tone.  "It's  really  more  like 
home  to  me — now — than  any  other  place  in  the  world.  .  .  . 
Oh,  and  there's  the  house!  .  .  .  How  dear — how  dear 
it  looks! — just  as  it  always  did." 

"We  put  on  a  coat  of  white  paint  each  spring,"  said  Miss 
Graham,  "but  it  always  seems  to  look  a  little  dingy  before 
the  year  comes  round.  White  paint  isn't  what  it  used  to 
be,  I  suppose." 


40  FOURSQUARE 

"It  doesn't  look  a  bit  dingy  to  me,"  Mary  insisted,  as  the 
carriage  turned  in  at  the  gravelled  drive  between  two  tall 
posts.  The  place  was  surrounded  by  a  thick  hedge,  never 
allowed  to  grow  high  enough  to  shut  it  in.  The  house  stood 
well  back  from  the  street.  Bates  was  sending  the  horses 
along  smartly  now;  it  was  his  special  pride  to  have  the  car- 
riage sweep  around  the  curve  to  the  end  of  the  long  porch  and 
stop  with  a  hint  of  a  flourish. 

Dusk  was  descending,  and  several  windows  showed  lights. 
The  big  front  door  swung  open  as  Mary  ran  down  the  porch, 
and  a  stout  figure  in  a  black  dress  and  white  apron  stood 
beaming  in  the  doorway. 

"Oh,  Eliza — bless  your  heart!"  Mary  had  both  the  house- 
keeper's hands  in  hers.  "How  good  it  is  to  see  you!  I 
didn't  think  everything  could  seem  just  the  same.  But  it 
does,  even  to  you.  Why,  you  haven't  a  gray  hair!" 

"Indeed  I  have,  Miss  Mary.  But  you're  looking  just 
the  same.  I  could  think  you  were  just  the  girl  that  used  to 
come  here — and  ask  for  cookies  before  you  got  inside  the 
door." 

"You'll  see  I'm  not — by  many  years,  Eliza,  though  I  like 
cookies  just  the  same.  Oh,  this  beautiful  old  hall!  Aunt 
Sara," — as  Miss  Graham  with  Bates  and  the  luggage  came 
in — "there  never  was  another  hall  quite  like  this!" 

She  was  all  over  the  house  in  the  next  fifteen  minutes, 
ending  by  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  upstairs  room 
which  had  always  been  hers,  on  all  her  visits,  and  looking  in 
at  it  with  contented  eyes.  Miss  Graham  had  followed  her 
about,  enjoying  her  pleasure  in  the  familiar  scenes. 

"It's  all  exactly  the  same,"  Mary  exulted.  "The  old 
mahogany  pieces,  the  white  matting  on  the  floor  and  the  blue 
rugs  and  hangings,  the  desk-bookcase  with — I'll  wager — 
the  very  same  books?"  Miss  Graham  nodded.  "And  the 
lovely  old  blue-and-white  English  jugs  and  bowls  on  the 


A  COLLEGE  TOWN  41 

washstand. — Oh,  but  the  lamp  is  new!  How  pretty  it  is. 
Why,  it's  electric!  Have  you  wired  the  house,  then  ?" 

"Yes,  I  had  to  come  to  it,"  Miss  Graham  explained,  smil- 
ing. "I  was  sorry  for  a  while,  but  now  I  am  glad,  for  it  per- 
mits me  to  use  several  table  lights  in  places  where  I  could  not 
before.  Do  you  like  this  one,  then  ?  It  seemed  to  me  to  fit 
the  room — and  you." 

"It's  exquisite,  and  the  touch  of  rose  gives  just  what  was 
needed  with  all  the  blue-and-white. — Yes,  in  here,  Bates, 
please,  with  all  the  things,"  and  Mary  had  her  key  in  the  lock 
of  the  travelled-looking  leather  trunk  by  the  time  it  was  fairly 
in  place. 

For  the  following  hour  she  was  busy  with  the  unpacking. 
So  Miss  Graham,  sitting  in  a  chintz-covered  armchair  by  the 
big  square  table  in  the  corner  between  two  windows,  found 
herself  in  a  maze  of  interests.  The  most  of  Mary's  belong- 
ings had  preceded  her,  and  this  trunk  had  been  devoted  to 
the  books,  pictures,  and  special  articles  which  she  had  wanted 
to  keep  with  her  till  the  last. 

"They  make  home  for  me,  anywhere,  so  how  can  they  help 
but  make  a  super-home,  here?"  Mary  demanded,  as  she 
placed  blue  pottery  book-ends  on  the  table  and  filled 
them  in  with  a  long,  crowded  row  of  books.  She  set  up 
photographs  on  the  white  chimneypiece  beneath  which 
glowed  a  small  bedroom  fire,  and  spread  bureau  silver  and 
crystal  jars  upon  the  chaste  white  linen  of  the  dressing- 
table. 

"I  always  did  love  this  long  mirror,  with  the  Mount  Ver- 
non  picture  in  the  upper  panel,"  she  said,  pausing  to  look  into 
it  with  a  smile,  which  changed  to  the  suggestion  of  a  frown 
as  she  added —  "and  how  I've  changed  since  I  used  to  sit  and 
admire  my  brown  curls.  Aunt  Sara,  do  you  realize  that 
I'm  twenty-seven  years  old — all  but  a  month  ?  No  girl  any 
more." 


42  FOURSQUARE 

"My  dear — you  don't  look  twenty-one!"  Miss  Graham 
exclaimed. 

"Yes,  but  I  do — begging  your  kind  pardon.  I  did  keep 
rather  fresh  for  a  long  time,  but  I'm  jaded  now,  no  doubt 
about  it." 

"Child,  you  are  tired.  I've  known  it  all  along.  You 
worked  too  hard  over  there.  Just  as  soon  as  you  are 
rested 

But  Mary  had  already  left  the  painful  subject  of  her  years, 
and  was  burrowing  in  the  trunk  again,  toward  the  bottom. 
In  a  moment  she  came  to  place  two  framed  photographs  on 
the  table  before  Miss  Graham,  without  speaking.  The  elder 
woman  looked  and  looked  again. 

"How  fortunate  you  are,  dear,  to  have  such  pictures  of 
them.  I  never  saw  these — I  didn't  know  they  existed." 

"I  found  them  among  some  snapshots  I  took  of  them 
myself,  hunted  out  the  films  and  had  them  enlarged.  They're 
so  much  more  satisfying  than  any  portraits,  don't  you  think  ?" 

"Much  more." 

One  of  the  pictures,  of  a  goodly  size,  was  of  a  middle-aged 
man  of  fine  face  and  distinguished  bearing,  standing  before 
a  vine-clad  wall,  apparently  absorbed  in  looking  at  some 
object  not  within  range  of  the  camera.  One  hand  was 
thrust  into  his  pocket,  his  eyes  were  intent,  his  mouth  evi- 
dently ready  to  break  into  a  smile. 

"In  the  snap,"  explained  Mary,  "one  of  the  boys  was  fac- 
ing him,  talking  excitedly — his  expression  was  absurd,  with 
his  mouth  open,  so  I  didn't  like  to  leave  him  in.  But  father 
looks  exactly  as  he  always  did  when  he  was  giving  the  other 
fellow  a  chance  to  explain  but  meant  to  come  back  at  him 
with  some  keen  speech  which  would  show  him  where  he  stood. 
I  thought  it  was  by  far  the  most  typical  moment  that  has 
been  preserved.  It  makes  a  wonderful  picture,  doesn't  it?" 

"Oh,  yes.     It's  better  of  him  than  this  of  your  mother, 


A  COLLEGE  TOWN  43 

though  this  is  really  lovely.     But  it  doesn't  show  her  full 
face,  and  that  disappoints  me." 

"I  know — yet  can't  you  see  how  the  very  next  instant  she 
will  look  up  and  say  some  sparkling  thing  that  will  make  you 
delight  in  her?  Mother's  sense  of  humour  was  one  of  the 
most  delicious  things  about  her,  wasn't  it?  Oh,  how  beau- 
tiful she- 
Mary's  voice  failed  her  for  an  instant,  and  she  turned 
quickly  away  to  hide  it,  quite  as  Mrs.  Fletcher  of  the  photo- 
graph would  have  done.  She  dove  into  the  trunk  again  and 
brought  up  a  long  silk  scarf  of  blended  hues  of  violet  and  blue. 
Dropping  it  in  Miss  Graham's  lap  she  gently  took  away  the 
photographs. 

"That's  the  prettiest  scarf  to  be  found  in  Paris,"  she 
said,  triumphantly.  "It  looked  so  like  you  I  pounced  on  it 
and  all  but  took  it  away  from  a  woman  who  was  hesitating 
over  it.  In  my  very  best  manner  I  managed  to  convey  to 
her  a  subtle  suggestion  that  the  pink-and-amber  one  she  was 
also  considering  was  by  far  the  more  becoming  to  her  youth 
and  beauty!" 

The  unpacking  and  bestowing  was  all  done,  after  a  time, 
and  the  trunk  sent  away.  Then  came  dinner  and  a  long, 
quiet  evening  by  the  fire  in  the  drawing-room  of  which  Mary 
had  written  so  longingly.  She  had  slipped  into  a  little  frock 
of  dull  blue,  in  which,  Miss  Graham  thought,  she  looked  a 
picture,  with  the  firelight  bringing  back  the  old  warm  colour 
into  her  cheeks.  It  seemed  just  the  Mary  of  five  years  ago 
who  told  stories  of  French  life,  with  many  a  sparkling  com- 
ment, or,  when  the  tale  was  a  pathetic  one,  gave  to  the  telling 
that  touch  of  the  dramatic  which  was  Mary's  own. 

When  the  grandfather's  clock  in  the  hall  struck  ten,  how- 
ever, she  stood  up  and  saluted  snappily,  with  a  clear  "Yes, 
sir!"  like  one  of  the  soldiers  of  whom  she  had  been  speaking. 
Then  she  proposed  something  so  foreign  to  all  Miss  Graham's 


44  FOURSQUARE 

habits  that  it  quite  startled  the  small  person  in  the  wing- 
chair. 

"Aunt  Sara,  let's  put  on  some  big  boots  over  our  slippers 
and  go  out  for  a  little  walk.  Will  you?  It's  a  nice  night, 
and  the  fresh  air  will  make  us  sleep.  Besides — I  want  to  see 
how  the  hill  looks  in  the  dark." 

It  was  pleasant  to  get  out  of  doors  in  the  evening,  Miss 
Graham  was  thinking  happily,  as  she  walked  down  the  grav- 
elled driveway  with  Mary's  arm  linked  in  hers  and  Mary's 
voice  in  her  ear.  The  night  was  mild,  a  thin  crescent  moon 
hung  in  the  west,  there  was  more  than  a  suggestion  of  com- 
ing spring  in  the  air. 

"I  shall  see  the  lilacs  come  out,"  exulted  Mary,  straining 
her  eyes  down  the  dark  lawn  toward  a  thick  row  of  small 
trees  near  the  hedge.  "I  never  saw  lilacs  anywhere  like 
yours." 

"I  have  a  new  blue  one — a  very  rare  species,  and  it  i« 
really  blue,  and  very  beautiful  among  the  purple  and  white 
And  there  is  one  which  is  almost  pink." 

"And  the  tulips  and  daffodils — is  Batesy  as  proud  of  those 
as  ever?  Oh,  and  does  he  still  have  the  first  crocuses  of 
any?" 

"Yes,  always.  He  grows  more  and  more  proud  of  the 
garden.  He  wheedles  me  into  getting  new  varieties  every 
spring." 

Mary  was  looking  now  toward  certain  lighted  windows, 
just  beyond  the  hedge,  farther  down  the  hill,  where  the  drive- 
way swept  close. 

"The  Fenns  live  there  still,  of  course?"  she  inquired. 

"Oh,  yes — I  am  very  glad  to  say.  I  should  hardly  know 
how  to  live  with  any  other  neighbours  in  that  house." 

"Still  teaching?  Harriet  in  the  high  school  and  Mark  in 
*he  college?" 

"Just  the  same.    They  are  very  fine  people,  and  the  best 


A  COLLEGE  TOWN  45 

of  neighbours.  There  is  nobody  in  town  whom  I  enjoy 
seeing  more.  They  could  hardly  help  being  what  they  are, 
with  Matthew  Fenn  for  their  father.  Do  you  remember  how 
fond  your  father  was  of  him?" 

"Of  course  I  remember.  It  was  strange  that  the  two  should 
have  gone  so  nearly  at  the  same  time,  wasn't  it?  They  were 
so  different — so  exactly  opposite  in  type  one  would  hardly 
have  thought  they'd  have  found  so  much  to  like  in  each 
other. — Is  that  lighted  front  room  below  still  the  old  study, 
crammed  with  books?" 

"Yes — one  can  hardly  turn  about  in  it  now,  there  r.re  so 
many.  And  still  Mark  comes  home  with  fresh  annfuls. 
Harriet  says  it  is  his  one  dissipation." 

"It  seems  a  harmless  one."  The  pair  had  turned  into  the 
street  and  were  walking  slowly  past  the  Fenn  house,  down 
the  hill.  Mary's  eyes  were  still  scanning  the  windows 
through  whose  red  curtains  below  the  partially  lowered 
shades  the  light  glowed  ruddily.  "But  he'll  slowly  fossilize 
among  his  books.  Don't  he  and  Harriet  ever  get  away  to 
the  city,  see  a  play  or  hear  some  music?  Or  do  they  just 
attend  educational  conferences  and  address  meetings?" 

Miss  Graham  found  herself  resenting  a  little  the  mocking 
tone,  even  though  it  came  from  lips  so  beloved. 

"Mark  Fenn  will  never  become  a  fossil,"  she  said  quickly. 
"One  feels,  in  contact  with  him,  that  he  is — alive,  that  he 
is  thinking  things  through.  I  know  he  is  considered,  in  the 
college,  one  of  the  most  able  of  the  younger  men.  President 
Wing  told  me  personally,  not  long  ago,  that  his  courses  are 
leading  all  the  rest  in  the  matter  of  interest  and  accomplish- 
ment." 

In  the  dim  light  Mary  was  smiling,  understanding  that 
she  had  touched  a  sensitive  spot  in  her  aunt's  consciousness, 
and  delighting  in  the  little  lady's  warm  defense. 

"Good!"  she  said  warmly.     "I'm  mighty  glad  to  hear 


46  FOURSQUARE 

it.  Of  course,  you  know,  I  shouldn't  doubt  for  a  moment 
that  Mark  would  be  a  splendid  teacher.  It  just  seemed  to 
me  that  he  was  still  rather  young  to  make  books  his  only  dis- 
sipation. Perhaps  you  didn't  mean  that  literally.  Just  tell 
me  that  he  and  Harriet  do  go  in  town  and  riot  a  bit,  now  and 
then,  and  I  shall  be  quite  satisfied.  If  you  can't  say  they 
do — well — I  shall  feel  it  my  duty  to  stir  them  up,  that's  all." 

"We  all  went  in — "the  nearest  city  was  fifty  miles  away, 
but  Newcomb's  inhabitants  all  claimed  it  as  their  own — 
"only  a  fortnight  ago,  to  a  musical  convention  which  lasted 
three  days.  It  was  a  very  great  treat." 

"Did  Mark  take  some  girl — at  least  part  of  the  time? 
Do  tell  me  he  did!" 

"He  and  Harriet  and  I  went  together,"  explained  Miss 
Graham. 

She  couldn't  see  her  niece's  expressive  face,  but  she  could 
feel  that  Mary  was  laughing.  "Oh,  that  was  a  riot! — For- 
give me,  dearest,  but  it's  going  to  take  me  a  few  days  to  ad- 
just myself.  I've  been  living  in  such  a  rush  of  engagements, 
you  know.  Don't  fear — I  shan't  be  sighing  for  New  York.  I 
can't  tell  you  how  I  love  walking  along  this  quiet  street, 
looking  at  all  the  lights  in  the  houses  and  thinking  that  in- 
side are  homes — real  homes.  Sometimes  it's  seemed  as  if 
there  weren't  any  real  homes  in  New  York.  I  suppose  there 
are,  but  the  sense  of  them  is  lost,  somehow.  Here — why, 
each  house  looks  like  a  family.  You  don't  know  how  I've 
missed  that — nor  how  glad  I  am  to  get  back  to  it. — Hark, 
what's  that? — Oh," — she  breathed  it  into  Miss  Graham's 
ear — "how  long  it  is  since  I've  heard  college  boys  sing  in  the 
night!" 

Coming  back  up  the  hill,  by-and-by,  when  they  had  walked 
across  the  village  green  at  the  foot,  past  the  white  church, 
and  so  around  a  course  of  nearly  a  mile,  they  saw  the  door 
of  the  small  brown  house  just  below  the  large  white-pillared 


A  COLLEGE  TOWN  47 

one  open  and  close.  As  they  came  nearer,  they  discovered  a 
figure  tramping  up  and  down  the  path  from  porch  to  street, 
hands  clasped  behind  its  back.  The  fragrance  of  tobacco 
smoke  reached  them  as  they  came  abreast,  and  as  the  figure 
turned  at  the  porch  again  and  came  back  down  the  path, 
Miss  Graham  spoke  softly. 

"Good-evening,  Mark.  Can  you  guess  who  is  here  with 
me?" 

The  slow  pacing  turned  at  once  into  a  rapid  advance.  A 
pipe  had  its  glowing  ashes  knocked  out  of  it  on  a  lifted  heel 
and  a  voice  said  with  a  certain  crisp  inflection  Mary  Fletcher 
remembered  well  the  minute  she  heard  it  again: 

"I  certainly  can.  Only  one  guest  could  make  you  sound 
'.ike  that.  How  do  you  do,  Mary  Fletcher?  Welcome  back 
to  Newcomb!" 

"Thank  you,  Mark  Fenn.  It's  perfectly  splendid  to  be 
here." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that."  His  hand  closed  over  hers 
sturdily.  "We  knew  you  came  to-day,  but  didn't  venture  to 
make  any  sign.  Harriet  reported — through  the  window  cur- 
tains— that  you  didn't  even  glance  toward  the  little  brown 
house  as  you  drove  in.  So  she  thought  you'd  forgotten  the 
people  who  live  there." 

"Shame  on  Harriet!  She  should  have  opened  the  window 
and  shouted  at  me.  I  hope  twenty-four  hours  more  won't 
go  by  before  you  both  come  over." 

"They  shall  not.  I  wish  I  could  see  how  you're  looking. 
But  your  voice  sounds  like  the  voice  of  Mary,  and  I  can 
guess  that  you're  smiling." 

"I  surely  am.  And  I'm  so  happy  to  be  here,  I  had  to 
drag  Aunt  Sara  out  to  look  at  the  town  with  me.  It's  so 
beautifully  the  same  I  could  have  wept  for  joy." 

"You  didn't  want  to  find  it  grown  out  of  recognition, 
then?" 


48  FOURSQUARE 

"Not  a  bit.  I  couldn't  bear  to  hear  that  some  new  people 
live  in  the  old  Townsend  house  on  the  green.  How  dared 
they  come  in!" 

"Up  on  the  campus,  however,  we  really  have  one  fine  new 
building.  The  architect  cleverly  planned  it  in  keeping  with 
the  old  timers,  and  you'll  find  it  doesn't  destroy  the  general 
harmony." 

"Everything's  all  right  then,"  admitted  Mary.  "It's 
the  general  harmony — the  old-time  atmosphere  I  want  pre- 
served, whatever  else  goes." 

"Yes,  I  understand  that  authors  are  always  looking  for 
atmosphere.  I  hope  you'll  find  it — quite  as  musty  as  you 
want  it." 

Genial  though  it  was,  Mary  thought  she  recognized  a  cer- 
tain dryness  in  his  tone,  which  she  remembered  of  old.  Mark 
had  always  had  a  way  of  making  her  realize  that  she  had 
been  a  trifle  condescending. 

"I'm  no  author  now,  I'm  just  a  girl  again,  looking  for  the 
old  landmarks  in  my  beloved  town,"  she  hastened  to  assure 
him. 

"Well,  here's  one  before  you,  you  see — or  can't  see.  And 
like  all  landmarks,  I'm  a  trifle  weather-beaten,  as  you'll  dis- 
cover to-morrow  night.  But  I  think  you'll  find  Harriet  pre- 
cisely the  same  person,  in  spite  of  her  six  years  of  teaching — 
in  all  kinds  of  winds  and  weather." 

"Dear  Harriet — give  her  my  love  and  tell  her  I  shall 
shriek  at  her  from  my  bedroom  window  when  she  goes  down 
the  walk  to  start  for  school  in  the  morning,  just  as  I  always 
did." 

When  they  had  reached  the  house  Mary  said  she  should 
be  very  much  interested  to  see  the  Fenns  by  a  revealing 
light,  and  Miss  Graham  replied  that  they  were  worth  looking 
at  by  any  light. 

"Mark  must  be  about  thirty-five  by  now,"  Mary  con- 


A  COLLEGE  TOWN  49 

sidered.  "No  great  age — and  his  voice  is  rather  nice,  but 
I'm  afraid  he's  pretty  staid.  Harriet's  my  age — but  she's 
probably  staid  too.  There's  something  about  the  professor- 
ial attitude — the  habit  of  instructing — and  disciplining — 
that  gets  left  over  after  office  hours.  My  blessed  father  was 
one  of  the  few  men  who  ever  lived  who  managed  never  to  ac- 
quire it.  Aunt  Sara — do  you  remember  his  laugh?" 

"Yes,  dear.     No  one  could  forget  it." 

When  she  was  ready  for  bed,  more  than  an  hour  later, 
Mary  put  out  her  light,  raised  her  shades  and  laid  her  hand 
upon  her  window  to  open  it.  Before  she  did  so,  however, 
she  stood  for  a  minute  looking  across  to  the  small  brown 
house  beyond  the  hedge.  From  the  lower  front  windows  she 
could  still  see  the  ruddy  light  shining  out  upon  the  porch 
floor  and  posts  where  dead  vines  clung,  though  the  rest  of 
the  house  was  dark.  All  down  the  street  lights  were  gone 
from  most  of  the  windows.  The  still  town  was  all  but  asleep. 

"Down  where  I  came  from,"  thought  Mary,  "they're  just 
pouring  out  of  the  theatres,  ready  for  supper  and  dancing. 
The  lights  are  blinking  in  a  million  windows — nobody's 
thought  of  going  to  bed  yet — except  the  old  people  and  the 
babies.  Up  here  a  few  college  boys  are  grinding  under  a  few 
desk  lights,  and  one  solitary  professor  sits  up  reading — 
Theocritus,  most  likely."  The  fancy  amused  her,  and  she 
decided  to  ask  him,  next  evening  when  he  came  to  call, 
whether  he  really  had  been  reading  Theocritus — or  only  cor- 
recting examination  papers.  She  hoped  it  was  the  latter! 

When  the  next  evening  came,  she  found  herself  making 
rather  careful  preparation  for  the  expected  guests,  jibing  the 
while  at  herself  that  already  in  the  new  and  quiet  life  the 
visit  of  two  village  teachers  could  be  an  event  to  be  looked 
forward  to.  The  Mary  of  the  old  days  had  from  season  to 
season,  beginning  in  her  childhood,  been  accustomed  to  dash 
in  and  out  of  the  brown  house  next  door.  In  the  later  years, 


So  FOURSQUARE 

however,  she  had  seen  less  and  less  of  the  Fenns  in  her  briefer 
and  briefer  stays  with  Aunt  Sara.  The  last  time  she  had 
been  here  she  had  only  a  distant  and  tragic  recognition  of 
Mark  in  black  gloves  acting  as  pall-bearer  for  Dr.  Arthur 
Fletcher's  casket  as  it  was  carried  out  of  the  white  church  on 
the  green,  and  afterward  of  his  bending  over  her  to  say  a  few 
grave  words  of  sympathy  and  farewell.  It  was  really  at 
least  seven  years  since  she  had  seen  either  Mark  or  Harriet  for 
more  than  a  word  of  greeting. 

She  put  on  the  dull-blue  frock  again,  and  the  high-heelec? 
slippers  and  stockings  which  matched  it,  oversaw  the  making 
of  a  small  silver  potful  of  chocolate  and  some  tiny  thin  sand- 
wiches, and  arranged  the  lighting  in  the  drawing-room  to  suit 
herself — an  important  matter.  She  found  herself  wishing 
for  flowers — bilt  there  were  no  desirable  flowers  to  be  had, 
though  she  telephoned  the  small  village  greenhouse. 

"That's  a  real  lack,"  she  said  to  herself.  "I  can't  do 
without  flowers — not  possibly.  I  must  have  a  box  sent  out 
once  a  week,  at  least  till  the  garden  blooms.  Guests  for  the 
evening  in  a  lovely  old  drawing-room  like  this — and  no 
flowers!" 

Then  the  Fenns  arrived,  and  she  forgot  everything  else  in 
the  interest  of  renewing  old  acquaintance.  Harriet,  with 
her  smooth  fair  hair  and  pleasant,  fresh-coloured  face  full  of 
character  seemed  to  Mary  just  what  she  had  expected — the 
type  of  an  energetic  and  successful  village  teacher.  She 
was  becomingly  if  somewhat  austerely  dressed,  and  her 
quiet,  assured  manner  was  much  as  Mary  remembered  it. 
Her  clear  blue  eyes  looked  straight  into  Mary's,  her  firm 
hand  took  hold  with  almost  the  grip  of  a  man's.  Capable, 
clear-brained,  independent,  trustworthy — this  was  Harriet 
Fenn.  Though  she  was  actually  younger  by  a  year  than 
Mary  herself,  she  would  have  given  any  stranger  the  im- 
nression  of  being  considerably  older. 


A  COLLEGE  TOWN  51 

As  for  Mark,  the  instant  Mary  felt  her  hand  in  his  and 
looked  into  his  strong-featured,  decidedly  interesting  face 
with  its  clear  gray  observant  eyes  she  understood  that  here 
undoubtedly  was  a  man  whom  she  couldn't  remember,  or 
classify  and  dispose  of  quite  as  she  had  expected  to  do.  All 
that  could  be  said  about  him  hadn't  been  said  when  one 
had  declared  that  he  was  undoubtedly  a  good  teacher,  but 
that  he  was  still  too  young  to  make  books  his  only  dissi- 
pation. He  really  didn't  look  as  much  like  a  fossil  as  she  had 
been  ready  to  believe.  One  thing  was  certain — her  quite 
natural  impression,  carried  over  from  the  days  when  she  had 
been  a  mere  girl  while  he  had  reached  young  manhood,  that 
he  was  already  old  and  "staid,"  as  she  had  characterized  both 
the  Fenns,  was  a  mistake.  He  wasn't  exactly  an  ancient 
crustacean  yet;  on  the  other  hand,  in  spite  of  a  certain  gravity 
of  face,  broken  rather  rarely  by  an  extremely  winning  smile 
showing  splendid  white  teeth,  he  had,  as  Miss  Graham  had 
said,  the  look  of  being  very  much  alive  and  to  be  reckoned 
with. 

Mary  herself,  this  night,  as  her  friends  regarded  her,  by 
the  sheer  suggestion  of  opposites  might  have  been  taken  for 
no  creature  less  imaginative  than  a  poet.  She  was  a  study  in 
artful  colouring,  in  voice  and  manner,  in  the  whole  appeal 
of  her  personality.  If  she  had  been  one  of  her  own  imaginary 
heroines  she  could  hardly  have  filled  the  eye  more  satisfy- 
ingly.  Just  how  much  uncommon  beauty  of  feature  she  pos- 
sessed might  have  been  questioned  by  some  over-analytical 
judge  of  such  matters,  but  certain  it  was  that  she  somehow 
gave  the  impression  of  quite  extraordinary  loveliness,  and  of 
the  distinction  and  magnetism  which  are  even  more  attrac- 
tive than  beauty  itself. 

From  the  first  moment  of  the  encounter  with  the  Fenns, 
Mary  was  on  her  mettle.  Just  what  it  was  which  suddenly 
rose  up  in  her  and  made  her  eager  to  surprise  and  captivate 


S2  FOURSQUARE 

afresh  these  two  people  who  had  known  her  so  long,  she 
herself  couldn't  have  told.  Perhaps  it  was  because  her  two 
quiet  days  and  nights  in  the  old  house  had  already  refreshed 
her;  perhaps  also  it  was  because,  to  one  for  whom  every  hour 
had  been  full,  those  two  quiet  days  had  already  begun  to 
make  her  long  for  diversion.  Certain  it  was  that  throughout 
that  evening  Mary  sparkled  as  only  Mary  could  when  she  was 
in  the  mood.  Sitting  close  by  the  fire,  on  that  little  mahog- 
any-armed, cross-stitch-embroidered  footstool  of  which  she 
had  written  to  Miss  Graham,  she  held  all  eyes.  Now  deli- 
ciously  gay  and  piquant,  now  sobering  to  thoughtfulness  as 
some  subject  came  uppermost  which  demanded  serious  con- 
sideration, again  seeming  to  listen  with  an  eager  concen- 
tration to  the  remarks  of  others,  whatever  she  did  or  said — 
or  however  silent  she  was — all  through  it  she  was  delightful 
to  watch. 

Altogether,  Mary  Fletcher  that  evening  was  the  Mary 
Fletcher  who,  when  in  the  same  fettle,  was  accustomed  to 
pour  into  her  work  the  peculiar  quality  of  enchantment  which 
brought  her  back  the  enthusiastic  approval  of  her  editors 
and  her  public.  Perhaps  there  is  no  better  way  to  indicate 
the  charm  of  her  actual  presence  in  such  an  hour  than  to  say 
that  it  reminded  one  irresistibly  of  that  other  and  allied 
charm  of  her  work,  whose  market  value  had  risen  to  such 
a  high  figure.  Mary's  own  personal  market  value,  to  put 
it  in  sordid  terms,  was  fully  as  high  as  that  of  her  work;  one 
found  her  companionship  quite  as  entertaining  and  absorb- 
ing as  any  tale  she  had  ever  put  upon  paper. 

Conversation  and  chocolate,  firelight  and  Mary  Fletcher — 
the  evening  passed  swiftly  for  the  guests.  Just  before  it  was 
over  a  clap  of  the  knocker  sent  Mary  herself  to  the  door — 
Miss  Graham  required  no  service  from  any  member  of  her 
quiet  household  in  the  evening.  A  huge  florist's  box  with  a 
special  delivery  tag  upon  it  had  been  sent  from  the  post  office. 


A  COLLEGE  TOWN  53 

Mary  brought  it  in.  She  knew  well  enough  from  whom  tc 
must  have  come. 

"Flowers!"  exclaimed  Harriet.  Her  tone  was  eloquent 
of  previous  denial. 

Great  masses  of  yellow  jonquils  and  pink  tulips  were  dis- 
closed, hardly  touched  in  their  careful  packing  by  hint  of 
fatigue  after  their  journey.  With  swift  fingers  Mary  sorted 
them,  laying  all  that  both  hands  could  hold  in  Harriet's  lap. 
To  Mark  she  held  out  one  small  cluster  of  jonquils. 

"Would  you  deign  to  soften  the  austerity  of  your  scholarly 
desk  with  these?"  she  asked. 

"Do  you  think  the  giver  would  be  pleased  to  have  any 
austerity  of  mine  softened  by  his  gift?"  he  replied,  with  that 
somewhat  rare  smile  which  she  hadn't  been  able  to  bring  to 
his  lips  as  often  that  evening  as  she  had  expected.  She  had 
remembered  of  old  that  Mark  Fenn  wasn't  a  smiling  man; 
there  always  had  to  be  a  real  reason  for  his  laughter,  though 
when  it  was  fairly  won  it  was  apt  to  be  of  the  heartiest.  Only 
once  or  twice  throughout  the  evening,  though  he  had  watched 
her  closely,  had  she  heard  that  really  gratifying  laugh  of  his 
ring  out.  Its  absence  had  slightly  piqued  her. 

"Oh,  he's  a  generous  person,"  she  answered.  "It's  one 
of  my  editors.  He's  so  sure  I'm  going  to  find  it  unbearably 
dismal  up  here  in  the  country,  as  he  calls  it,  he  feels  it  his 
duty  to  enliven  the  scene  for  me.  If  his  flowers  can  enliven 
my  friends  also,  he  will  indirectly  accomplish  his  object.  So 
isn't  it  logical  that  I  should  give  some  to  you — since  I  myself 
can't  do  it  alone?" 

"Can't  do  what,  please? — Enliven  us?" 

"You — in  particular.  Harriet  gives  me  back  smiles  for  all 
my  little  jests — you  alarm  me  by  your  grave  looks.  Did  you 

disapprove  of  'And,  Behold '  so  seriously,  Professor 

Mark?" 

"How  do  you  know  I've  read  it?" 


54  FOURSQUARE 

She  laughed.  "Guessed  it  by  the  way  you've  avoided 
the  subject  all  evening.  In  my  early  days  you  used  to  be  so 
ready  to  encourage  me.  Don't  you  think  I  need  encourage- 
ment now?" 

"Not  along  those  lines." 

"No?     Why  not?" 

"You  don't  think  so,  yourself." 

"Oh,  indeed!  Why,  I  thought  it  great  stuff!"  Her  tone 
was  the  mocking  one  she  often  used  with  much  effectiveness. 
Her  eyes  were  sending  shafts  of  challenge  into  his. 

"No — pardon  me — you  didn't.  But — do  you  think  we'd 
better  discuss  it?  I  should  probably  say  something  rude, 
and  that  would  be  a  poor  way  to  begin  to  be  neighbourly. 
You're  gone  away  beyond  my  tutoring,  these  days,  Mary, 
you  know;  you're  a  law  unto  yourself.  I'm  merely  a  back- 
woods teacher — no  critic  worth  your  considering." 

"Oh,  what  humility!  The  only  difference  between  days 
past  and  these  is  that — I  used  to  be  dreadfully  afraid  of  you 
and  your  opinion.  And  now — while  I  still  care  what  you 
think  of  my  work,  I'm  no  longer  afraid  of  you.  So — instead 
of  listening  in  meekness  to  your  words  of  wisdom,  as  I  used 
to  do,  I  should  now  probably " 

"You  would  probably  come  back  with  a  defense  that 
would  make  me  wish  I'd  taken  no  shots  at  you." 

"I'm  not  sure  I  should  make  any  defense.  What  I  should 
do  would  be — more  likely — to  attack." 

"Would  you?    That's  interesting.     On  what  ground?" 

"I'll  tell  you,  some  day.  As  you  say,  we  mustn't  begin  by 
being  rude  to  each  other  to-night.  But — if  you've  some- 
thing against  me  for  being  guilty  of  'And,  Behold '  I've 

something  against  you  for — — No,  I  will  not  tell  you  to-night, 
Mark  Fenn.  But  it's  a  real  count.  Some  day — we'll  have 
it  out,  I  promise  you!" 


CHAPTER  IV 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA 

UNT  SARA,  I'm  going  to  work." 

"So  soon,  Mary?  I  thought  you 
meant  to  do  nothing  but  rest,  for  the 
first  three  months  at  least." 

"It's  no  use.  The  more  I  do  noth- 
ing the  less  fit  I  am.  The  only  thing 
for  me  is  to  get  at  something.  It's 
always  been  so — it  always  will  be." 

"Have  you  a  plan  for  your  work?" 
Miss  Graham  asked,  rather  doubt- 
fully. 

She  sat  at  her  desk,  writing  letters, 
a  pleasant  figure  to  look  at,  as  always. 
She  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  in  cor- 
respondence with  old  friends.  Several 
of  these  had  been  sadly  neglected 
since  Mary  came,  there  had  been  so 
many  engagements.  Every  day  or 
two  somebody  had  invited  Miss  Gra- 
ham and  her  niece  to  tea  or  luncheon; 
there  had  even  been  a  number  of  din- 
ners in  her  honour,  quiet  affairs,  after 
the  fashion  of  the  quiet  college  town. 
Miss  Graham  herself  had  "enter- 
tained "  twice  for  Mary.  It  had  been 
a  long  time  since  so  much  had  hap- 
pened in  and  about  the  old  house. 

55 


56  FOURSQUARE 

"Not  a  shadow  of  a  plan,"  Mary  responded,  cheerfully. 
She  sat  upon  the  edge  of  a  mahogany  centre  table,  swinging  a 
russet-shod  foot.  Her  kilted  brown-and-white-striped  skirt, 
her  rakish  little  brown  hat  pulled  well  down  over  her  hair, 
proclaimed  her  intent  to  go  for  a  long  tramp.  "  But  I'll  get 
one.  Not  to-day,  probably — nor  to-morrow.  But  there's 
no  way  to  begin  except  to  begin.  Unless  one's  a  genius — • 
which  I'm  not — one  can  wait  till  doomsday  for  the  thing 
that's  called  inspiration — it'll  never  come.  I've  got  to  go 
out  after  it,  looking  up  every  cross  road,  behind  every  tree — 
chasing  up  every  rabbit  track — till  at  last  I  see  a  vague  form 
emerging  from  somewhere,  in  the  dim  distance.  I'll  dash 
after  it — shouting  madly  to  it  to  stop.  But  it  won't  stop; 
it'll  go  trailing  away  through  the  woods,  only  showing  me 
a  glimpse  of  itself  from  time  to  time,*while  I  follow  along,  get- 
ting more  tired  and  more  out  of  breath  all  the  way.  This 
will  keep  up  for  days,  more  than  likely.  Finally,  some  won- 
derful hour,  I'll  be  plodding  along,  almost  out  of  hope  ever 
to  see  the  thing  I'm  following,  when — suddenly — the  figure 
will  turn,  stop,  wait — and  I'll  rush  up  to  it,  panting.  I'll 
see  it  growing  clearer  and  clearer  as  I  come  near — a  form — a 
face — an  outstretched  hand1 " 

Miss  Graham  was  watching  her  niece  in  wonder.  Mary's 
attitude,  the  expression  on  her  face,  spoke  eloquently  of  some- 
thing of  which  the  elder*woman  knew  nothing. 

"Even  yet,"  said  Mary  softly,  "she  won't  show  me  more 
than  the  mere  outlines  of  herself,  and  before  I've  done  more 
than  fling  myself  at  her  to  embrace  her,  crying,  '  Here  you  are ! 
— I  knew  I'd  find  you ! '  she'll  be  gone  again — behind  the  trees. 
But  I'll  have  seen  her!  And  from  that  moment,  I'll  know  I 
can  find  her  again  if  only  I'm  willing  to  trudge  and  drudge 
and  toil.  And  from  that  moment  I'll  be  glad  I'm  alive,  and 
that  in  my  brain  somehow  is  the  power  to — to — make  that 
vision  real.  Oh,  there'll  be  days  when  I'll  almost  think  I've 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA  57 

lost  her  again,  forgotten  even  how  she  looked — but — just 
when  I'm  most  despairing  she'll  appear  to  me  once  more 
— and  she'll  have  grown  so  big  and  splendid  that  I  can  only 
fall  on  my  face  before  her,  crying,  'Oh,  I'm  not  fit  to  try  to 
tell  them  about  you — I  never,  never  can  do  it!  But — it's 
the  joy  of  my  life  to  try!"3 

Mary  looked  down  at  Miss  Graham.  She  slid  off  the 
table,  laughing  and  pulling  the  little  brown  hat  farther  over 
her  eyes,  as  if  in  shame. 

"I  sound  like  a  tipsy  fool,  don't  I?"  she  said,  raggedly. 

"And  all  about  some  silly  tale  like  'And,  Behold !'— I'll 

admit  there  was  nothing  in  that.  The  vision  I  had  wasn't  as 
big  as  I  thought  it.  The  work  I  did  in  France  was  ten  times 
better.  But — I'm  going  to  do  something  now  that  will  re- 
deem me  in  your  eyes — and  certain  other  people's.  So  now 
I'm  off,  on  the  beginning  of  the  hunt.  I've  asked  Eliza  to 
put  up  some  sandwiches  for  me,  and  I  won't  be  back  for 
lunch.  You'll  get  used  to  me  after  a  little.  It's  Mary  the 
idler  you've  had  visiting  you  so  far.  It's  Mary  the  worker 
you're  going  to  have  now,  with  a  pickaxe  and  a  spade  on  her 
shoulder,  looking  for  a  job! — Never  mind  my  mixed  meta- 
phors— they'll  be  worse  mixed  before  I'm  through.  Work- 
man digging,  hunter  hunting,  spinner  spinning — it's  all  the 
same.  You  can't  cook  your  hare  till  you  catch  it — and 
there's  another  for  luck!" 

She  left  an  airy  kiss  on  Miss  Graham's  cheek,  slipped  out 
through  the  kitchen  where  she  picked  up  her  sandwiches, 
stowing  them  in  a  leather  bag  with  a  strap  like  a  lawyer's 
brief-case,  which  she  slung  over  her  shoulder — it  already 
held  notebook  and  fountain  pen — and  swung  away  down 
the  drive. 

It  was  just  a  week  after  this  brave  start,  a  week  each 
morning  of  which  saw  Mary  setting  forth  again  upon  her 
quest,  each  afternoon  returning  with  a  sober  face  which 


58  FOURSQUARE 

smiled  when  it  met  Miss  Graham's  questioning  look.  The 
morning  mail  of  that  eighth  day,  heavy  as  it  always  was  with 
letters  from  both  friends  and  strangers,  brought  one  letter 
which  Mary  read  twice  over  on  her  way  along  the  road. 

DEAR  MARY  FLETCHER: 

Two  months  have  gone  by  and  I  have  kept  my  promise.  Not  a 
word  from  me  has  broken  in  upon  the  solitude  with  which  it  was 
your  purpose  to  surround  yourself.  What  other  sounds  may  have 
reached  you  from  that  bothersome  outer  world  which  you  have 
renounced  I  know  not,  but  certain  it  is  that  no  shoutings  from 
my  sanctum  can  be  branded  as  intruders.  Have  I  earned  at  least 
your  tolerance  for  this  first  signal  of  my  continued  existence? 

You  told  me  of  your  purpose  to  rest  for  fully  three  months  before 
so  much  as  turning  your  thoughts  toward  work.  But  somehow  I 
know  that  already  you  are  of  a  will  to  break  this  vow.  The  tea 
parties  have  begun  to  pall,  the  weekly — I  had  all  but  written 
weakly — college  lectures  to  which  the  general  public  is  invited  have 
lost  their  zest — if  they  ever  had  any;  the  quiet  of  the  place  is  begin- 
ning to  get  upon  your  nerves — those  delicately  strung  nerves  upon 
which  your  whole  future  depends.  In  a  word — you  long  to  be  at  it. 

Have  you  a  theme?  I  wonder.  In  your  walks  up  and  down 
the  lanes  and  between  the  hedges,  have  you  encountered  the  thing 
you  seek — the  Great  Idea — the  Big  Motive?  Not  yet,  you  answer 
impatiently.  What  is  the  man  thinking  of — that  he  asks  that 
question  so  soon.  Of  course  you  haven't!  No — of  course  not. 

Well,  June  must  be  coming  on  gloriously  up  your  way.  Must  I 
keep  away  indefinitely?  This  is  the  question  which  disturbs  my 
peace  of  mind.  If  I  come  with  no  hint  about  me  of  wishing  to  speed 
up  your  processes  of  thought,  only  as  a  friend  who  misses  you  very 
much  and  would  be  glad  to  set  eyes  upon  you  again — How  about  it? 
I  rather  like  June  in  the  country  myself.  May  I  have  a  glimpse  of 
it — in  your  company? 

Faithfully  yours — always 

JOHN  KIRKWOOD. 

Mary  pulled  out  fountain  pen  and  writing  tablet,  and 
sitting  upon  a  log  in  the  depths  of  her  wood,  replied  to  this 
letter  even  before  she  ate  her  lunch. 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA  59 

DEA*  JOHN  KIRKWOOD: 

I'm  sorry  not  to  share  this  particular  portion  of  the  countryside 
with  you — or  anybody — at  this  time.  But  June  can  be  found 
anywhere,  you  know — and  in  other  places  you  wouldn't  be  disturb- 
ing my  train  of  thought.  To  be  frank,  I'm  just  getting  at  my  work, 
and  if  you — or  anybody — should  come,  it  would  most  certainly  dis- 
tract my  mind.  I  hate  to  seem  ungracious,  but • 

In  this  vein  she  finished  the  letter.  Six  hours  later,  ar- 
riving at  the  house,  she  found  a  telegram  awaiting  her. 

Unexpectedly  summoned  your  way.  Having  received  no  prohi- 
bition in  reply  to  letter  am  venturing  to  call  this  evening.  Hope  for 
clemency. 

KIRKWOOD. 

Mary  ran  to  her  room.  She  had  passed  the  post-office 
on  her  way  home  and  had  not  mailed  the  letter  she  had  writ- 
ten in  the  woods.  The  day  had  been  delightful,  as  far  as  her 
enjoyment  of  it  in  the  open  could  make  it  so,  but  it  had  been 
productive  of  no  smallest  germ  of  an  idea  for  her  future  use. 
She  had  told  herself  all  the  way  along  the  road  home  that  she 
would  mail  the  letter  and  settle  the  question  of  the  editor's 
coming,  for  the  present;  yet  this  eighth  futile  day  of  seeking 
had  somehow  weakened  her  resolution  just  enough  to  make 
her  decide  to  leave  the  letter  upon  the  hall  table  and  let  it  go 
out  when  the  postman  made  the  morning  delivery  and  col- 
lection. It  was  impossible  not  to  remember  how  often  Kirk- 
wood's  presence  had  quickened  the  workings  of  her  mind 
even  without  concrete  discussion  of  her  plans.  Yet  the  actual 
news  of  his  coming  made  her  angry  with  him,  that  he  had  not 
waited  for  permission. 

"He's  abominably  sure  that  I  need  him — and  want  him," 
she  told  herself.  "He  knows  perfectly  that  I  haven't  had 
time  to  answer  his  letter,  and  that  I  should  have  told  him  not 
to  come.  He  shall  be  properly  punished  for  his  intrigue — 


60  FOURSQUARE 

for  that's  what  it  is.  I'll  not  even  change  to  another  frock 
for  him — and  that  ought  to  show  him!" 

Down  upon  the  porch,  by  and  by,  she  awaited  him,  sitting 
on  the  step  talking  with  Aunt  Sara,  who,  herself  in  silk  and 
lace,  presently  expressed  a  mild  surprise. 

"You  look  as  if  you  were  just  starting  off  for  another 
walk,  my  dear,"  she  said.  "  Suppose  someone  comes  to  call." 

Mary  stuck  her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her  brown  coat. 

"From  this  time  on,  Aunt  Sara,"  she  remarked,  "I'm  afraid 
you  must  expect  me  to  behave  most  improperly.  Up  to  now, 
I've  been  dressing  for  dinner  and  going  to  teas  and  doing 
everything  that  I  should.  But  now — I've  begun  to  work. 
And  when  I've  been  off  tramping  and  come  home  tired  and 
without  a  brain  in  the  world,  I'm  to  be  exempt  from  rules. 
I  warn  you  that  if,  as  we  sit  here,  I  should  see  figures  oi 
callers  approaching,  and  should  be  inspired  to  slip  off  among 
the  shrubbery  and  evade  them,  you  mustn't  show  agitation. 
You  must  say  casually,  'I'm  so  sorry  my  niece  isn't  in* — 
and  let  it  go  at  that." 

"I  will  try,"  agreed  Miss  Graham,  after  a  moment's 
pondering  over  the  ethics  of  such  duplicity,  "to  shield  you  as 
best  I  can,  when  you  really  do  not  care  to  see  callers.  Do 
you  wish  me  to  warn  you — there  is  a  man  coming  up  the 
walk. — I  fear  it  is  too  late  to " 

It  was  quite  too  late — and  Mary  knew  that  she  didn't 
wholly  wish  to  escape.  She  rose,  and  with  one  hand  still  in 
the  pocket  of  her  coat,  gave  the  other  to  Mr.  John  Kirk- 
wood.  Her  welcoming  smile,  through  the  May  twilight,  was 
carefully  tempered  by  an  edge  of  displeasure. 

"Shall  I  go  away  again?"  he  inquired,  his  own  smile, 
however,  showing  confidence.  "I'd  have  waited  for  an 
answer  to  my  wire,  if  there'd  been  time." 

"Are  you  sure  of  that?" 

"You  distrust  me.     I  can  show  evidence  that  I  really  had 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA  61 

to  see  personally  a  most  difficult  and  evasive  author,  within 
fifty  miles.  You  couldn't  expect  me  to  let  slip  a  chance  like 
that — could  you?" 

When  Miss  Graham  had  left  them,  after  a  decent  interval 
during  which  Mr.  Kirkwood  had  done  his  best  to  make  upon 
Mary's  aunt  the  impression  he  wished — and  had  quite  evi- 
dently succeeded — he  and  Mary  came  to  grips  with  the  sit- 
uation. 

"You  have  a  most  useful  imagination,"  Mary  said,  her 
chin  in  her  cupped  hands,  her  elbows  on  her  knees,  as  she  sat 
on  the  step  of  the  white-pillared  porch  and  looked  away  from 
the  figure  beside  her.  "Doesn't  that  imagination  help  you 
to  understand  that  you  break  the  spell?  Here  I've  been 
spending  two  months  trying  to  get  away  from  all  suggestion 
of  the  old  electrified  atmosphere,  the  old  high  tension  con- 
ditions— and  you  bring  it  all  back  as  surely  as  the  fragrance 
of  Aunt  Sara's  box  borders  brings  back  the  days  of  my  child- 
hood." 

"That  seems  a  not  too  severe  analogy — rather  a  pleasant 
one,"  was  Kirkwood's  comment.  "If  I  do  nothing  worse 
than  that " 

"But  you  do.  It's  not  a  severe  enough  analogy.  It's 
as  if  I  were  sitting  on  a  quiet  bank  in  the  woods,  and  a  brass 
band  went  by!" 

"Great  guns! — If  that's  the  effect  of  me  I  must  do  some- 
thing to  tone  myself  down.  And  here  I've  been  thinking  my- 
self the  most  subdued  and  toneless  of  sober  workers.  What 
have  I  said,  since  I  came,  that  has  been  of  the  brass-band 
order?" 

"Nothing.  Your  talk  with  Aunt  Sara  was  the  perfection 
of  intelligent  adaptation.  You  haven't  mentioned  your  office 
— or  your  contributors,  or  anything  calculated  to  stir  me  up. 
And  yet — you  inevitably  recall  to  me  the  Big  Town  and  all 
the  world  I  know  so  well  and  want  to  escape." 


62  FOURSQUARE 

"I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  with  amusement  politely  suppressed. 
"I'd  no  idea  it  was  as  bad  as  that.  Why  didn't  you  try  a 
convent?  The  walls  are  thicker — and  I  should  have  had  to 
get  permission  from  the  Mother  Superior." 

She  made  an  impatient  movement.  "Oh,  can't  you  under- 
stand?" she  urged,  a  distinct  edge  upon  her  low  voice. 
*'  Something  queer  has  happened  to  me.  It  happened  be- 
fore I  came  away — or  I  shouldn't  have  come.  I  don't  know 
what  it  is  myself.  All  I  know  is  that  I  had  to  get  away. 
I  may  not  be  able  to  do  anything  here,  but  at  least " 

There  was  a  silence  of  a  full  minute.  Then  Kirkwood 
spoke  very  quietly.  "At  least  I  understand  myself  for- 
bidden to  talk  about  your  work.  If  it  were  not  so  I  might  be 
able  to  say  something  to  help  you.  I  think  I  know  what's 
the  matter." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "No — I  don't  want  you  to  talk 
about  it.  I  don't  want  it  analyzed.  I  couldn't  bear  to  dis- 
cuss it.  I've  got  to  fight  the  thing  through  alone." 

"Very  well.  Only  let  me  say  once  more  that  if  the  time 
comes  when  you're  tired  of  fighting  it  through  alone,  you'll 
let  a  fellow  combatant  direct  a  straightforward  blow  or  two 
at  your  imaginary  antagonist. — And  now — if  you  can  bear 
to  hear  me  talk  at  all — I'd  like  to  tell  you  a  tale  or  two. 
Or — if  you're  too  tired  to  see  me  at  all  to-night,  I'll  go  back 
to  my  hotel  and  come  again  in  the  morning." 

Mary  rose  promptly.  "I  think  that  would  be  best,"  she 
agreed.  "I  know  I  seem  like  a  bear  myself,  but  I  admit  I'm 
frightfully  tired  to-night,  and — if  you  would  come  in  the 
morning  instead " 

"Of  course."  Kirkwood  shook  hands  in  an  entirely 
friendly  manner,  as  if  such  dismissal  at  almost  the  beginning 
of  a  call  one  had  come  many  miles  to  make  were  entirely 
rational  and  kind.  "Morning  puts  a  brighter  light  on  most 
troubles — and  all  moods." 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA  63 

"You  forgive  me?" 

"Certainly." 

Mary  watched  the  tall  figure  stride  away  down  the  gravel 
path,  uncomfortably  aware  that  she  had  been  inexcusably 
ungracious,  yet  relieved  at  her  present  release.  Next  morn- 
ing, however,  she  woke  to  find  herself  looking  forward  to  the 
editor's  return  with  actual  eagerness.  She  had  been  absurd 
last  night — feminine,  all  but  hysterical  in  her  unreasonable- 
ness. John  Kirkwood  was  a  good  friend;  it  was  more  than 
possible  that  a  straight,  sane  talk  with  him  would  relieve  the 
tension  of  the  past  week's  failure  to  think  things  out,  even 
though  the  two  did  not  technically  discuss  plans  for  work. 
Anyhow,  she  would  meet  him  with  amiability  and  let  him 
remain  long  enough  to  satisfy  all  demands  of  courtesy.  It 
was  even  possible  that  she  might  permit  him  to  go  with  her 
for  an  hour's  tramp  upon  which  he  could  light  the  pipe  he 
always  carried  in  his  pocket,  and  pace  along  the  road,  puffing 
cheerfully  and  talking  entertainingly,  after  the  fashion  she 
well  remembered.  She  had  many  memories  of  such  walks, 
along  the  upper  reaches  of  the  Drive,  or  through  the  wind- 
ing by-ways  of  the  Park.  None  could  be  better  company,  of 
that  she  was  quite  sure. 

She  came  downstairs  early,  looking  fresh  and  fine,  with 
every  chestnut  hair  in  place,  blue  linen  replacing  the  brown 
jersey  of  the  past  week.  She  found  at  her  plate  a  note, 
written  upon  the  stationery  of  The  College  Inn. 

On  second  thought  I  have  decided  not  to  bother  you  with  a  morn- 
ing call,  since  I  should  be  breaking  in  upon  your  best  working  hours. 
I  need  hardly  say  that  I  am  disappointed,  but  of  course  that  doesn't 
count  with  me  at  all  against  your  fitness  for  work.  I  promise  not 
to  come  again  until  you  summon  me — if  I  find  myself  able  to  keep 
such  promise  in  spite  of  my  honest  conviction  that  I  could  help. 
But  I  understand  that  I  can't  make  a  nuisance  of  myself  at  the 


64  FOURSQUARE 

present  stage  of  your  experience  without  prejudicing  you  hopelessly 
against  ever  calling  upon  me.  Therefore,  in  perfectly  good  temper 
- — in  spite  of  the  aforementioned  keen  regret — I  take  myself  off,  only 
asking  from  you  the  recognition  that  here  is  one  whose  imagination 
does  put  him  clearly  in  your  place — or  he  would  most  certainly  not 
be  writing  this  note  instead  of  walking  up  the  hill  to  find  you  at  the 
top. 

Well!  She  had  what  she  wanted.  What  more  could  she 
ask  of  a  friend  than  the  rare  ability  to  see  when  his  absence  is 
more  welcome  and  more  helpful  than  his  presence?  Now  she 
was  free  again  to  go  off  upon  the  ninth  day  of  her  quest  for 
that  elusive  vision  of  which  she  had  talked  so  gaily  to  Miss 
Graham,  with  no  smoke  from  a  nearby  pipe  to  obscure  the 
dim  wraith  of  which  she  was  in  pursuit.  Nine  days — what 
were  nine  days?  Well  might  she  look  nine  months  for  the 
thing  she  sought,  if  so  be  in  the  end  she  found  it.  But,  the 
trouble  was  that  this  inability  to  see  some  sort  of  light,  though 
it  were  only  a  rush  light,  was  new  in  Mary's  experience. 
Always  before  had  her  active  brain  leaped  at  its  task,  eager  to 
be  used,  ready  to  present  to  her  any  number  of  ideas  for 
consideration,  her  part  only  to  pick  and  choose.  But  now — 
now — that  brain  seemed  numb — dumb — worthless. — And 
she  had  refused  the  very  stimulus  which  so  often  before  had 
set  it  spinning! 

But  she  did  not  summon  Kirkwood  back,  though  at  the 
hour  his  note  reached  her  she  knew  she  could  have  intercepted 
him  at  the  railway  station.  Instead  she  returned  doggedly  to 
her  effort.  She  had  not  known  before  how  persistent  she 
could  be  in  the  face  of  discouragement — indeed  she  had 
hardly  known  discouragement  before.  She  knew  it  now,  and 
with  each  succeeding  day  her  sense  of  something  having 
"happened"  to  her,  she  knew  not  what,  became  more 
real. 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA  65 

On  a  June  evening,  idling  up  the  path  to  the  house,  Mary 
heard  the  notes  of  a  violoncello,  coming  from  no  great  dis- 
tance. She  paused,  listening  eagerly.  Yes — the  strains 
proceeded  from  the  open  window  of  Mark  Fenn's  study.  She 
crossed  the  lawn,  leaped  over  the  low  hedge,  and  walking  up 
to  the  window  stood  still  below  it.  The  slow,  careful  tones 
were  sure  ones — the  air  played,  a  famous  old  strain  from  a 
great  composer. 

Mary  had  not  seen  much  of  the  Fenns  since  her  arrival,  two 
months  earlier.  Before  coming  to  town  she  had  expected  to 
meet  them  often,  but  now  that  she  was  here  somehow  actual 
communication  seemed  slow  to  be  established.  Occasional 
brief  visits  with  Harriet  across  the  box  borders  of  the  garden, 
or  now  and  then  a  short  encounter  with  her  brother  as  they 
met  upon  the  street — these  were  hardly  to  be  regarded  as  the 
signs  of  warm  friendliness  between  the  two  households.  Miss 
Graham's  suggestions  that  she  and  Mary  "run  over"  to  the 
Fenns'  upon  a  spring  evening,  or  invite  their  neighbours  to 
dinner  upon  a  Sunday  afternoon,  had  usually  been  met  by 
a  counter  suggestion  that  the  call  or  the  invitation  be  post- 
poned to  a  more  convenient  season — Mary  was  deep  in  a 
book — or  she  was  expecting  to  go  elsewhere  presently — or  the 
Fe-nns  were  probably  busy,  or  tired. 

"Don't  you  care  to  see  much  of  our  neighbours,  Mary 
dear?"  had  been  Miss  Graham's  puzzled  question,  upon  one 
of  these  occasions.  "I  thought  you  liked  them — as  I  do." 

"Of  course  I  do."  Mary  had  looked  up,  with  a  casual  air, 
from  a  book  in  which  she  seemed  absorbed.  "But — well — 
they  seem  rather  prosier  than  I'd  expected.  Living  all  one's 
days  in  a  small  town,  teaching  the  same  things,  year  in,  year 
out,  certainly  does  tend  to  make  one  narrow,  doesn't  it?" 

"Narrow?  I  should  hardly  call  the  Fenns  that,  Mary." 
Miss  Graham  looked  slightly  displeased. 

"I  enjoy  people  who  strike  sparks,  now  and  then,"  Mary 


66  FOURSQUARE 

explained.  "  People  who  scintillate — corruscate — startle  one 
with  the  unexpected.  I  don't  want  to  know  what  a  man  is 
going  to  say  before  he  says  it.  I  don't  want  a  woman  to  be— 
oh,  of  course  I'll  shock  you,  Aunt  Sara — but  I  don't  want  a 
woman  to  be  so  terribly  conventional  that  she'll  never  make 
you  sit  up  and  look  at  her  because  she's  said  something  you 
didn't  expect  her  to!" 

"My  dear!    What  can  you  mean?'* 

Mary  had  thrown  her  book  upon  the  table  with  a  gesture  of 
impatience.  "Of  course  I  seem  to  mean  something  awful — 
from  your  point  of  view,  dear  saint.  I  don't,  at  all.  But — if 
you  could  know  some  of  the  people  I've  known — men  who  are 
never,  never  dull,  no  matter  what  they  talk  about — women 
who  fairly  sparkle  with  fresh  and  vivid  ideas  about  things — 
you'd  see  what  I  mean.  Well — we  went  to  a  college  dinner 
last  night,  didn't  we?  Was  ever  anything  so  stupid?  I  sat 
between  Professor  Dry-as-Dust  and  Miss  Prim-and-Proper. 
Wise  as  Solon — good  as  St.  Cecilia — and  oh,  so  boring,  I  nearly 
died  of  my  suppressed  yawns." 

"You  were  unfortunate."  Miss  Graham's  voice  had  a 
little  edge  upon  its  usual  gentleness.  "There  were  cer- 
tainly people  at  that  table  who  are  distinguished — delightful. 
Doctor  Edgeworth — Professor  Marner — Mrs.  Grant " 

"Yes,  I  know.  Forgive  me.  They  were  eminently  worth 
while — and  I  know  if  I'd  been  so  lucky  as  to  sit  next  them  I 
could  never  have  kept  up  my  end.  But  it  really  isn't  that 
sort  of  brilliancy  I'm  craving — it's  another  and  quite  different 
sort.  Never  mind,  dear.  I  know  I'm  impossible.  I'm 
truly  having  a  beautiful  time  here,  and  it's  only  now  and  then 
I  miss — the  thing  I  can't  describe.  Only — the  Fenns  haven't 
got  it,  nice  as  they  are,  and  I  don't  care  to  be  really  intimate 
with  them.  But  I'll  go  to  see  them — to-morrow  night,  if  you 
like!" 

Mary  got  up  and  came  around  the  centre  table,  upon  oppo- 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA  67 

site  sides  of  which  the  two  had  been  reading.  She  dropped 
upon  her  knees  before  her  aunt's  slender  figure  and  looked  up 
with  beseeching  eyes.  The  smile  Miss  Graham  never  found 
it  easy  to  resist  flashed  at  her  from  Mary's  lips,  then  those  lips 
grew  sober. 

"You  know,"  Mary  said  whimsically,  "in  this  sober  town 
sometimes  I  feel  a  little  like  a  frivolous  young  windmill,  set 
among  a  group  of  statues  in  a  garden.  Whichever  way  I  turn 
I  see  something  imposing  to  look  at,  but  so  substantial — so 
unchangeable — so  impossible-to-be-swayed-by-the-passing- 
winds — like  me — that  sometimes  I  find  myself  longing  to 
throw  a  brickbat  at  some  learned  lady  or  studious  gentleman 
on  a  pedestal,  and  smash  their  classic  profiles  into  dust!  Yet 
— being  only  a  windmill,  I  can't  throw  a  thing!" 

With  Mary  for  a  companion,  poor  Miss  Sara  had  had  to 
become  accustomed  to  this  sort  of  unreasonable  tirade,  yet 
found  compensation  in  the  girl's  other  moods,  which  were  full 
of  appreciation  and  contrition.  But  the  lack  of  special  inter- 
est in  the  neighbours  next  door  seemed  to  persist,  until  all  at 
once,  on  this  June  evening,  came  a  sudden  revival. 

Having  stood  beneath  the  Fenn  window  for  full  five  min- 
utes, listening  to  an  air  which  seemed  to  express  a  feeling  not 
unlike  her  own  at  the  hour,  Mary  stole  to  the  open  front  door, 
entered  without  knocking,  and  came  to  a  standstill  at  the  door 
of  the  study.  Within  she  saw  Mark  Fenn,  coat  off,  drawing 
the  bow  across  the  strings  of  the  instrument  held  between  his 
knees,  his  thick  locks  thrust  back  from  his  forehead,  his  eyes 
intent  upon  a  sheet  of  music  propped  precariously  against  a 
chair  back.  The  desk  light  was  canted  to  throw  its  rays  upon 
the  score;  the  doorway  was  thus  left  in  shadow,  and  the 
performer  had  no  knowledge  of  his  audience  until,  finishing 
the  page,  he  leaned  forward  to  turn  it  over,  and  a  voice  spoke. 

"Why  not  come  across  the  lawn  and  let  me  play  the  ac- 
companiment to  that ?  It's  a  great  theme,  isn't  it?" 


68  FOURSQUARE 

Mark  looked  up,  in  astonishment.  It  was  the  Mary  Flet- 
cher he  used  to  know,  for  the  moment,  who  smiled  at  him 
from  the  doorway — not  the  amazingly  difficult  young  woman 
with  whom  he  had  not  been  able  to  get  on,  of  late.  He 
smiled  back,  it  was  so  good  to  see  her  like  this. 

"Come  on  over  and  play,"  she  challenged  him,  in  the  voice 
of  a  small  girl.  "We've  got  a  piano  at  our  house,  and  maybe 
we  can  have  some  little  cakes  with  icing  on  I  saw  in  the  pantry 
— if  nobody  catches  us." 

"All  right,  I'll  play  with  you  if  I  can  have  some  of  the  cakes 
Eliza  makes." 

"How  do  you  come  to  be  playing  the  'cello  to-night?  I 
haven't  heard  a  note  of  it  since  I  came,  and  thought  you 
didn't  care  for  it  any  more." 

"I  still  care,  but  haven't  time  to  keep  up  practice.  Once 
in  a  while  I  get  it  out — and  wonder  why  I  don't  do  it  oftener.'' 

They  crossed  the  lawn  together.  Mary  lighted  the  draw- 
ing-room and  looked  over  the  musical  scores  Mark  had 
brought.  In  ten  minutes  the  two  were  off,  playing  away 
together  and  producing  an  effect  by  no  means  unworthy.  At 
the  end  of  the  Handel  Largo  Mark  lifted  his  bow  with  an  ail 
of  satisfaction. 

"That  went  fairly  well  for  a  first  attempt,"  he  said. 
"About  the  tenth  time  we  played  it  together  we  might 
get  something  out  of  it  the  composer  meant  to  put 
there." 

"Good  gracious!"  Mary  cried.  "I  thought  we  got  some- 
thing out  of  it  this  time !  Art  is  long,  from  your  point  of  view, 
isn't  it?  This  is  such  a  simple  thing — and  the  meaning  so 
obvious — beautiful  as  it  is " 

"Let's  try  it  again,  if  you  don't  mind.  We  played  it 
rather  over-sentimentally,  I  think.  One  can't  afford  to  do 
that,  with  a  plain,  heroic  motif  like  this  one.  Don't  slow  me 
Mp  there  and  there,  please — "  he  indicated  the  places  by  a 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA  69 

tap  of  his  bow.  "I  can't  march  ahead  with  you  hanging  on 
to  your  chords." 

"'The  professorial  attitude!'"  murmured  Mary,  saucily, 
quoting  from  herself.  "What  if  7  take  charge  and  insist 
that  it  ought  to  be  played  with  a  proper  observance  of  senti- 
ment? Not  that  I  intend  to — you're  quite  right.  Let's  try 
it  again,  and  I'll  be  as  austere  as  you  like." 

They  tried  it  again,  and  this  time  Mary  let  the  'cello  indi- 
cate its  own  reading  of  the  stately  measures,  with  a  result 
decidedly  more  satisfying,  even  to  her  own  ear.  Then  Mark 
selected  another  composition,  and  Mary  a  third,  and 
presently  the  pair  were  so  deep  in  the  interest  of  the  new 
association  that  neither  noticed  how  late  the  hour  was.  Miss 
Graham,  in  another  room,  had  heard,  had  come  softly  to  the 
door,  and  had  stolen  away  again,  rejoicing  but  afraid  to  break 
the  spell. 

"Oh,  that  was  simply  splendid!"  Mary  declared,  breath- 
less with  the  rapid  reading  of  a  difficult  score,  as  the  music 
ended  on  one  after  another  of  great  final  chords  which 
had  deeply  satisfied  something  within  her.  "Somehow  that 
blows  off  a  tremendous  amount  of  steam  that  was  threatening 
to  explode  and  wreck  something.  Don't  you  ever  feel  that 
way? — I  suppose  not!"  she  added,  regarding  searchingly  the 
face  before  her.  "And  yet" — as  an  expression  new  to  her 
observation  crossed  that  face — "I  almost  think  you  do — a 
little!" 

Mark  Fenn  looked  back  at  her  steadily  for  an  instant. 
Then  he  laid  down  instrument  and  bow,  rose  to  his  feet, 
leaned  against  a  corner  of  the  piano  and  folded  his  arms. 

"My  dear  Mary  Fletcher,"  he  said,  "I  think  I  shall  have 
to  make  a  statement  or  two  to  you.  I  dislike  to  be  personal 
and  call  your  attention  to  myself,  but  there  seems  no  other 
way.  Do  you  know — I  object  intensely  to  being  regarded  as 
a  fossil  by  you — or  by  any  other  human  being,  for  that 


70  FOURSQUARE 

matter.  Just  what  I've  said  or  done — or  not  said  or  not 
done — since  you  arrived,  to  make  you  treat  me  as  if  I  were 
your  valetudinarian  uncle  I  can't  imagine.  But  this  I  know. 
I  refuse  to  be  considered  an  instructor  in  a  classroom  when 
I'm  out  of  that  classroom,  as  if  I  carried  the  shell  of  it  around 
on  my  back.  And  I  want  you  to  know  that  when  we  reached 
that  magnificent  climax  at  the  end  of  that  last  movement,  my 
pulse  was  probably  beating  only  a  trifle  slower  than  yours. — 
And  it's  not  slowed  down  perceptibly  since — hence  this  turn- 
ing of  the  worm!" 

His  eyes  held  her — the  fire  in  them  was  genuine.  Mary 
responded  to  it  like  the  sensitive  quicksilver  she  was. 

"I  do  beg  your  pardon!"  she  said,  with  a  change  of  manner 
as  attractive  as  it  was  spontaneous.  "I  have  been  thinking 
you  old  before  your  time — and  hated  to  see  it  too.  There's 
something  about  teaching — it  does  make  men  old,  if  they 
don't  look  out.  You  have  just  a  bit  of  a  stoop  in  your 
shoulders,  you  know — and  you  shouldn't  have  at — what  is 
it? — Not  forty,  yet?" 

He  laughed,  rather  bitterly.  "Hardly!  Do  I  really  sug- 
gest forty — at  thirty-five?" 

"You  certainly  do — or  did.  At  this  moment,  with  your 
nice  thick  hair  rumpled  up  a  bit,  and  your  eyes  waked  up, 
and — that  attitude  which  says  the  male  creature  is  asserting 
itself — I  could  easily  imagine  you  a  bare  thirty.  You  really 
• — why  I  Like  you  better  than  I  have  since  I  was  a  little  girl  and 
you  jumped  me  over  the  hedge.  Goodness — you  couldn't 
have  been  anything  but  a  big  boy  then!" 

"I'm  only  a  bigger  boy  now,  you  know,"  he  said,  running 
his  hand  through  the  rumpled  hair  and  setting  it  still 
more  rampant.  "I  can't  conceive  what's  made  you  so 
belligerent  toward  me  ever  since  you  came — when  you  weren't 
avoiding  me  completely.  We  used  to  be  very  good  friends,  I 
thought." 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA  71 

"Belligerent!  It  was  you  who  were  that.  Letting  me 
know  the  very  instant  you  saw  me  that  you  thoroughly  dis- 
approved of  me!  Is  that  a  basis,  I  ask  you,  for  the  renewal  of 
friendship?" 

"I  didn't  disapprove  of  you — only  of  one  example  of  your 
work — of  which  you  disapproved  yourself.  But — great 
Caesar! — don't  let's  go  back  to  that,  now  that  there  may  be 
some  slight  chance  of  our  finding  common  ground  again.  See 
here,  Mary!  Harriet  and  I  were  looking  forward  with  the 
greatest  pleasure  to  your  coming  back  to  us.  We  thought  of 
you  as  the  open-hearted  girl  you  used  to  be,  who'd  be  in  and 

out  of  our  little  old  house Why,  I  went  and  invested  in  two 

new  and  decidedly  expensive  ties  and  a  new  hat,  particularly 
that  I  might  not  look  my  horrible  age.  Harriet — I  believe 
Harriet  did  something  equally  extravagant,  with  the  idea  of 
impressing  you.  And  then  you  came — with  a  chip  on  your 
very  pretty  shoulder " 

"Which  you  instantly  knocked  oflF,"  declared  Mary.  Her 
eyes  were  sparkling  now  with  a  light  which  hadn't  been  in 
them  for  a  month.  "Yes,  you  knocked  it  off,  Mark  Fenn — • 
Professor  Mark  Fenn — you  know  you  did " 

"Take  back  that  'Professor' " 

"It's  your  proper  title " 

"  I  won't  be  '  professored '  by  you,  Mary,  of  all  people." 

"  Mister,  then,"  substituted  Mary,  wickedly. 

"Why  not  plain  Mark?  I  am  plain  Mark,  I'm  well  aware, 
and  can't  interest  or  amuse  you  as  the  men  you  know  in  your 
own  world  can  do  so  well.  But — I  mightn't  make  so  poor  a 
friend,  Mary.  Anyhow — it  seems  a  pity  to  live  next  door  to 
each  other  for  a  year  and  keep  on — collecting  chips.  Doesn't 
it?" 

"It  does  indeed,"  she  admitted.  "Well,  if  we  continue  to 
play  the  classics  together — with  an  occasional  bit  of  ragtime, 
just  to  refresh  us "  she  broke  off,  laughing  at  his  face. 


72  FOURSQUARE 

"There  you  go,  again!     Don't  tell  me  you  don't  like  ragtime. 


Listen " 

She  slipped  on  to  the  bench  again,  struck  a  few  gay  notes 
and  plunged  into  a  song  of  the  day,  with  which,  it  is  hardly 
necessary  to  say,  she  did  not  expect  him  to  be  familiar.  To 
her  surprise,  after  the  first  two  measures,  a  clear  whistle 
joined  her,  and  they  finished  the  dashing  lines  together.  She 
swung  about  upon  the  bench. 

"That  wasn't  so  bad,  after  all,  was  it?"  she  challenged  him. 
"How  on  earth  did  you  come  to  know  it?" 

"  Pretty  bad — though  clever  enough,  too,  in  its  way.  How 
did  I  know  it?  You  don't  really  ask  me  that — in  these 
degenerate  days! — But  after  Beethoven — and  Handel 

"It  was  unkind  of  me.  I  apologize,  though  I  can't  be 
sorry,  for  it  proved  your  humanness,  as  nothing  else  could 
4o. — Well,  shall  we  play  again,  some  night  ?  I  wish  we  had  a 
violin  and  could  do  some  trios." 

"I  can  find  you  one,  easily.  We  have  an  excellent  first 
violin  in  the  college  orchestra.  He  would  be  mightily  pleased 
to  join  us — now  and  then." 

She  noted  the  emphasis  and  smiled  appreciatively.  "I 
should  be  very  glad  to  have  him — now  and  then,"  she  agreed. 
"It  will  be  the  best  thing  in  the  world  for  me  to  have  an 
evening  of  music  when  I've  been  grinding  hard — as  to-day. 
I  was  on  the  ragged  edge  of  deep  despondency  when  your 
'cello  pulled  me  out." 

"Really?  I'm  glad.  I  was  rather  in  the  dumps  myself — 
though  it  doesn't  seem  possible  now. — Is  the  work  pulling 
hard  ?  I'm  sorry  for  that — unless — it  means  that  something 
substantial  is  to  be  hauled  up  out  of  the  depths." 

"The  trouble  is — nothing  seems  to  be  on  the  other  end  of 
the  rope — it's  just  caught  on  a  snag.  I've  about  given  up" — 
She  bit  her  lip  and  finished  the  sentence  hurriedly — "about 
given  up  thinking  work  will  ever  come  easily  again." 


THE  PURSUIT  OF  AN  IDEA  73 

"That's  good!" 

"You  don't  mean  that — Professor  Mark!" 

"Is  that  my  punishment?  All  right — I  won't  continue 
On  those  lines.  Instead  I'll  say " 

Miss  Graham's  old  tall  clock  on  the  staircase  landing 
clanged  a  slow,  impressive  warning.  Mark  pulled  out  his 
watch. 

"I'll  say  it  some  other  time,"  he  finished.  "Who  knew  it 
was  twelve  o'clock!" 

Mary's  laugh  was  delicious.  "I  did — and  loved  it  that 
you  didn't.  Is  it  a  crime  to  be  up  at  this  hour — playing 
Beethoven  ?" 

"Very  nearly,  playing  anything,  on  College  Hill— unless 
it's  a  party." 

"It's  been  the  nicest  kind  of  a  party,  I  should  say.  Let's 
have  'em  often,  now  we've  begun." 

"I'll  be  delighted.     Good-night,  Mary." 

"Good-night— Mark." 

She  closed  the  door  upon  his  ruggedly  well-knit  figure,  re- 
calling the  smile  which  had  lighted  the  rather  fine  modelling 
of  his  face.  In  the  future,  she  thought,  she  wouldn't  need 
to  avoid  so  carefully  the  chance  of  hearing  what  he  really 
thought  about  her  work.  If  he  was  only  thirty-five,  could 
whistle  ragtime,  and  distinctly  didn't  want  to  be  given  a 
title,  whether  it  belonged  to  him  or  not,  it  seemed  possible 
that  she  might  get  off"  more  easily  than  she  had  feared. 
Anyhow,  the  deep,  splendid  tones  of  the  'cello  had  thrilled  her 
in  the  glorious  music  of  the  master,  and  if  she  could  not  work 
to-morrow  it  would  not  be  for  lack  of  the  mental  and  nervous 
stimulus  to  which  she  was  so  acutely  susceptible.  For  this 
she  was  strangely  indebted  to  a  man  who,  she  surmised, 
considered  her  work  too  emotional,  too  unrestrained;  and 
the  thought  gave  her  a  most  unrighteous  satisfaction — upon 
which  she  shortly  went  quite  happily  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  V 
A  BRIDGE  BUILDER 


HAT  on  earth  can  she  be  doing?" 
Mark  Fenn,  on  an  afternoon  in  earl)' 
August,  tramping  along  a  woodland 
path  which  ran  beside  a  small  stream, 
came  to  a  standstill,  staring  between 
the  slender  trunks  of  a  group  of  birches 
toward  a  spot  a  few  yards  beyond  and 
below  him  where  energetic  operations 
of  some  sort  were  in  progress.  A  blue- 
clad  figure  was  staggering  toward  the 
brook's  edge  carrying  a  stone  rather 
too  heavy  for  a  woman's  strength. 
Across  the  tumbling  width  of  the 
small  chasm  an  irregular  heap  of  sim- 
ilar stones  suggested  that  the  labourer 
was  attempting  to  construct  a  bridge, 
but  the  exceedingly  casual  look  of  the 
foundation  thus  laid  brought  a  hint 
of  a  smile  to  the  lips  of  the  observer. 
He  removed  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth,  softly  knocked  out  its  ashes 
and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  while  he  stole 
a  little  nearer  the  scene  of  action. 
Mary  Fletcher  as  a  bridge  builder 
presented  a  new  and  interesting  study. 
She  was  splashed  from  head  to  foot, 
and  even  as  he  watched,  a  fresh  volw 
74 


A  BRIDGE  BUILDER  75 

ume  of  water  rose  from  the  invaded  stream  in  answer  to  the 
fall  of  the  latest  addition  to  the  extending  heap  of  stones, 
and  turned  a  large  area  of  blue  linen  to  a  damp  expanse  of 
deeper  blue.  The  adding  of  the  new  stone  was  wasted  effort, 
for  it  promptly  rolled  off  the  others,  escaping  to  a  deep  pool 
just  beyond. 

"Oh — hang  !"  exploded  an  angry  voice,  and  a  doubled  fist 
sent  a  futile  gesture  after  the  deserter.  But  the  next  instant 
Mary  was  dragging  at  another  and  heavier  stone,  tugging 
with  panting  breath,  and  finally  heaving  it  down  upon  the 
wobbling  foundation  into  a  position  where  it  hung  perilously 
upon  the  edge  of  things,  too  far  to  be  reached  from  the  bank, 
of  no  possible  use  except  to  obstruct  further  progress. 

The  next  instant  a  small  round-head  snatched  up  from 
the  bank  went  spinning  after  it,  glanced  off  it,  and  sank 
tamely  to  the  bottom.  Mary  Fletcher  threw  up  both 
clenched  hands  into  the  air,  crying  out  something  unintel- 
ligible but  conveying  to  the  hearer  an  unmistakable 
tension  of  feeling  out  of  all  seeming  proportion  to  the  cause 
thereof.  She  flung  herself  down  upon  the  bank,  a  figure 
of  baffled  discontent.  The  next  instant  she  was  sitting 
erect  again,  startled  by  a  quiet  observation  from  a  few  feet's 
distance. 

"If  it  must  be  done,  it  must  be  done  differently.  Would 
you  be  willing  to  engage  an  engineer — who  isn't  afraid  to 
wade  in?" 

"Thank  you — I  wanted  to  do  it  myself." 

There  was  no  welcoming  smile  on  Mary's  face,  and  Mark's 
reflected  a  corresponding  gravity. 

"You  can't — without  getting  in.  And  you  need  heavier 
stones  than  you  can  lift.  Besides,  unless  you  intend  to  build 
a  dam,  you  need  to  leave  free  places  for  the  stream  to  run 
through,  or  it'll  wash  everything  away." 

"I  suppose  so.    Of  course  I  don't  know  how  to  do  it 


76  FOURSQUARE 

properly.  I  did  think  if  I  threw  on  stones  enough  I  might  ib 
the  end  get  a  bridge  out  of  it." 

"About  fifty  yards  below  you  can  cross  without  one." 

"But  I  wanted  to  build  a  bridge!"  cried  Mary — and  beat 
her  fist  upon  the  ground. 

Mark  Fenn  regarded  her  for  an  instant  without  speaking. 
He  saw  something  in  the  look  with  which  she  was  gazing  at 
the  pile  of  stones  which  made  him  suddenly  a  little  anxious. 

"All  right,"  he  said  quietly,  "let's  build  it  together. 
Many's  the  time  I've  done  it,  as  a  boy.  I  see  plenty  of  good 
material  all  about." 

Mary  did  not  look  at  him — indeed  she  had  given  him  but  one 
glance  since  his  arrival.  In  spite  of  her  replies  to  his  questions 
she  seemed  to  him  in  her  strange  mood  incredibly  remote. 

"Unless,"  he  added,  "you've  tired  yourself  out  and  will 
let  me  do  it  for  you." 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  "Go  ahead,"  she  said  briefly.  "I'll 
help — if  I  know  enough." 

Without  further  words  Mark  went  at  it.  Coat  off,  trousers 
rolled  above  his  knees,  he  stood  in  the  centre  of  the  narrow 
stream,  and  began  the  thing  all  over  again  with  a  well-placed, 
substantial  foundation,  wide  and  compact,  such  as  might  be 
expected  to  withstand  the  rush  of  the  current.  Mary  silently 
placed  within  his  reach  each  stone  as  he  indicated  it.  He 
permitted  her  to  tug  and  pull  as  she  would,  except  now  and 
then,  when  the  effort  was  obviously  too  much  for  her.  In  due 
course  the  task  was  completed,  a  structure  sufficiently 
solid  to  be  trusted  for  the  crossing.  Not  a  word  had  been 
said  not  called  for  by  the  work  in  hand. 

Mary  stood  and  looked  down  at  the  sturdy,  small  bridge,  and 
Mark,  taking  his  place  beside  her  upon  the  bank,  regarded  it 
with  the  satisfaction  the  man  feels  in  having  relived  an 
experience  of  his  boyhood.  He  had  put  into  the  censtruction 
the  most  careful  work  possible,  and  for  a  moment  he  felt  the 


A  BRIDGE  BUILDER  77 

glow  of  pleasure  which  succeeds  any  successful  physical  feat. 
At  the  next  moment,  however,  his  thoughts  returned  to  the 
person  beside  him,  whose  moody  look  had  been  not  in  the 
least  dissipated  by  the  labours  of  the  hour. 

"It's  very  fine,"  she  now  said,  slowly.  "But  I  didn't  do  it 
myself.  The  analogy  is  perfect.  I  can  do  nothing,  myself — 
any  more.  I  can't  even  place  the  first  stone — right." 

Mark  sat  down  upon  the  bank  and  put  on  his  socks  and 
shoes.  A  barefooted  workman  is  no  anomaly.  As  a  com- 
panion and  adviser  it  had  become  obligatory  to  resume  more 
formal  attire.  He  put  on  his  coat  and  ran  his  hand  across 
his  hair,  thrusting  it  back  into  place.  He  returned  to  stand 
beside  Maty,  the  strong  colour  in  his  face  telling  of  a  healthy 
circulation,  his  mind  working  rapidly.  The  hour  had  come, 
he  was  sure,  when  he  must  try  to  show  her  he  could  really  be 
a  friend  in  need. 

"  I  wonder,"  he  said,  quietly,  "  if  you'd  do  me  the  honour  of 
telling  me  all  about  it.  Of  course  I  can't  help  guessing  that 
your  work  isn't  going  well — that  you're  at  a  standstill.  Are 
you  letting  discouragement  get  the  upper  hand?" 

"It's  not  only  got  the  upper  hand,"  Mary  answered  bit- 
terly. "It's  thrown  me — and  bound  and  gagged  me.  I'm 
helpless — and — I  think  I'm  going  quite  mad  with  rage. 
When  I  began  to  build  this  bridge  I — thought — if  I  could 
build  it  I  should  have — proved  that  I  could  create  something 
— if  only  a  child's  plaything.  It  seems  I  can't  do  even  that." 

"You  tried  a  man's  task." 

"I  want  to  do  a  man's  task!  That's  it — exactly.  I'm 
tired  of  doing  womanish  work — of  building  bridges  that 
won't  stand.  Besides — building  that  bridge  wasn't  a  man's 
task.  I  could  have  waded  out  and  laid  the  bottom  stones  as 
securely  as  you  did — and  built  up  just  as  strong  a  crossing.  I 
hadn't  the  patience.  I  wanted " 

"You  wanted  to  stand  on  the  bank  and  throw  them  in,  and 


78  FOURSQUARE 

have  them  lodge  by  some  happy  chance  just  where  they 
needed  to  be.  And  then — you  grew  cynical  and  unreasonable 
because  they  didn't." 

"I've  always  done  it — before!"     Mary  cried,  defiantly. 
"Stood  on  the  bank  and  thrown  the  stones,  and  they  lodged, 
and  the  bridge  was  built — and  people  crossed  on  it." 
"And  you  didn't  get  your  feet  wet!" 
"I  didn't  need  to." 

"You  admitted,  a  minute  ago,"  Mark  suggested,  "that  the 
bridges  didn't  always  stand." 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Mary's  nerves  gave  way  com- 
pletely. 

"I'm  going  home,"  she  said  unsteadily.  "If  I  don't — I 
shall  go  to  pieces  and  cry.  I  wouldn't  cry — before  you — for 
anything  I  can  think  of.  I'm  not  a  crying  person — I'm  not ! 
I  won't  break  my  record." 

"You  shall  not,"  he  agreed,  abandoning  his  hurriedly  con- 
ceived plan  of  getting  to  the  bottom  of  her  distress  and 
substituting  another.  There  was  more  than  one  way  of  being 
the  best  friend  he  knew  how  to  be,  and  quite  evidently  he 
must  use  a  different  method  than  that  of  lecturing  to  her  on 
her  faults  if  he  would  help  her — for  the  hour,  at  least.  She 
was  in  no  condition  to  bear  up  under  an  analysis  of  her 
situation,  if  he  were  competent  to  make  one. 

Therefore  they  walked  home  together,  through  wood  and 
lane,  and  Mark,  glancing  from  time  to  time  at  Mary's  profile 
as  they  went  along  for  the  most  part  silently,  thought  he  saw 
that  the  long  strain  of  unprofitable  self-communings  was  telling 
upon  her.  Her  colour  was  good,  for  she  had  been  out  of  doors 
too  constantly  to  lose  it,  but  there  was  a  contraction  between 
her  brows  and  a  tenseness  about  her  mouth  which  he  didn't 
like  to  see,  and  there  was  also  more  than  a  suggestion  in  her 
manner  that  she  was  keeping  a  grip  upon  herself  with  diffi- 
culty. 


A  BRIDGE  BUILDER  79 

Before  he  left  her,  however,  he  said  the  thing  which  he  most 
wanted  to  say,  for  he  had  grown  surer  and  surer  that  it  was 
the  thing  she  needed  most.  He  delayed  saying  it  until  they 
were  at  the  parting,  having  come  up  through  Miss  Graham's 
orchard  and  garden  to  the  point  where  a  gap  in  the  hedge 
between  her  land  and  his  proved  that  communication  by  this 
means  was  frequent. 

"I've  wished  I  could  help  you,"  he  said.  "But  I  can  see 
that  you're  not  fit  just  now  to  talk  or  think  about  your  work. 
I  wish'  you  would  drop  it  entirely  for  a  time " 

"  I  can't,"  Mary  interrupted,  brokenly.  "  I've  got  to  think 
it  through.  I've  got  to  get  somewhere.  I — there's  no  other 
way.  Never  mind — I  will — somehow.  Don't  bother  about 

me.  I  know  I've  seemed  a  little  fool  this  afternoon,  but " 

She  turned  away.  "Good-bye,"  she  said. 

He  took  a  step  after  her  and  laid  hold  upon  her  hand — 
which  he  was  startled  to  find  was  cold  as  ice. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  to  her  averted  face,  "there's  one  thing  I 
can  do  for  you,  and  that's  to — stand  by.  Your  ship  isn't 
sinking — far  from  it — and  you're  not  going  to  abandon  her. 
But  the  seas  seem  to  be  running  high,  and  I  think  you've  got 
to  make  port  for  some  repairs  to  the  engines.  Meanwhile — 
my  ship  is  going  to  stand  by  and  keep  in  touch.  I  want  you 
to  know  that.  You  may  not  care — much — just  now,  whether 
I'm  there  or  not.  But — sometime — perhaps  you  will.  Any- 
how— I  am  there,  and  nothing  can  make  me  change  my 
course  from  yours  while  you're  in  trouble." 

She  looked  around  at  him.  The  first  smile  he  had  seen 
on  her  face  this  afternoon  touched  it  in  answer  to  this  speech. 
It  was  an  odd,  forced  smile,  however,  and  gave  him  no  relief 
from  his  anxiety.  Nor  did  her  words. 

"I  admit  I'm  quite  human  enough  to  have  that  touch  me, 
Mark.  There's  nothing  you — or  anybody — can  do  for  me — 
except  that.  But  if — some  night — my  ship  goes  head  on,  on 


8o  FOURSQUARE 

a  rock,  and  sinks  before  you  can  get  to  me,  don't  mind  too 
much.  Maybe  I'd  never  have  made  port,  anyhow." 

He  would  have  kept  her,  to  say  something  still  more  re- 
assuring— if  he  could  have  found  it — but  she  pulled  her  hand 
away,  and  only  shook  her  head  as  she  fairly  ran  from  him, 
toward  the  house.  He  looked  after  her,  his  face  grave. 

"It's  like  trying  to  handle  some  wild  thinj^"  he  told  him- 
self, "for  a  blundering  fellow  like  me  to  try  to  come  near  her 
at  all.  Outside  of  my  classes  I  don't  know  anything  about 
women — how  should  I  be  able  to  help  her  when  she's  over- 
strung like  that  ?  Yet — if  I'm  not  mistaken — somebody  or 
something  must,  or  she'll  be  beyond  it." 

He  would  have  been  still  surer  of  this  if  he  could  have 
known  how  she  spent  the  night.  Though  she  went  early  to 
her  room,  it  was  not  to  sleep.  Daylight  saw  her  dressed  for 
the  street,  a  small  bag  packed,  her  room  left  in  order. 

When  Miss  Graham  came  down  to  breakfast  she  found  a 
note  beside  her  plate,  and  Eliza  explaining,  in  considerable 
trepidation. 

"Miss  Mary's  gone  down  to  New  York,  Miss  Graham. 
She  wouldn't  let  me  call  you.  She  told  me  to  tell  you  not  to 
worry  about  her — she'd  be  back  in  a  few  days.  She  took  the 
notion  in  the  night  and  just  went  and  did  it.  I  came  down 
early  and  found  her  making  herself  some  coffee,  so  of  course 
I  got  what  I  could  for  her  in  a  hurry. — Now  don't  be  worried, 
Miss  Graham.  You  know  she's — why — I  don't  suppose  folks 
that  write  are  just  like  other  folks,  do  youf" 

"Did  she — was  she — did  you  think  she  looked  welly 
Eliza?" 

The  housekeeper  noted  that  Miss  Graham's  white  hand 
shook  a  little  as  she  unfolded  Mary's  note.  The  colour  had 
quite  left  the  delicate  face. 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss  Graham — she  was  very  lively  all  the  while 
I  saw  her.  She  called  it  a  lark — seemed  to  be  sort  of  excited 


A  BRIDGE  BUILDER  81 

and  pleased  about  it.  It  was  something  about  being  there 
to-morrow  morning  in  time  for  somebody.  You — you 
read  the  letter,  Miss  Graham — that'll  tell  you  more  than  I 
can.  There's  nothing  to  worry  about,  I'm  sure.  Going  to 
France  and  all — I  expect  it  seems  nothing  at  all  to  her  to 
make  up  her  mind  in  the  night  and  just  catch  a  train  in  the 
morning,  so." 

Miss  Graham  read  the  note.  It  was  and  was  not  reassur- 
ing, though  evidently  it  was  meant  to  be  so.  But  it  left 
Mary's  aunt  vaguely  uneasy,  she  could  not  tell  why. 

MOST  BELOVED: 

Mary  wouldn't  be  Mary  if  she  didn't  do  erratic  things,  would  she? 
But  really  this  isn't  so  erratic  as  it  seems.  I  didn't  sleep  awfully 
well,  and  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  that  if  I  could  catch  Alexandra 
Warren  before  she  gets  away  on  her  fortnight's  vacation,  and  have  a 
good  talk  with  her,  it  would  be  worth  doing.  I  know  she's  on  the 
edge  of  leaving,  and  suddenly  I  want  to  see  her  so  very  badly  that 
I  feel  I'm  justified  in  startling  you  this  way.  I  know  you  get  your 
best  sleep  toward  morning  so  I  wouldn't  wake  you.  I'll  be  back 
very  soon — I'm  only  taking  a  few  things.  If  I  can  get  what  I  want 
down  there  I'll  come  back  a  more  reasonable  person — I  know  I've 
driven  you  to  distraction  for  weeks  with  my  moods  and  vagaries. 
Forgive  me,  won't  you — for  I  love  you  very  much,  and  shall  be  eager 
to  get  back  to  you. 

MARY. 

"It's  like  her  father,"  Miss  Graham  told  herself.  "He 
used  to  start  on  a  journey  at  an  hour's  notice — and  accom- 
plish great  ends  by  doing  it.  Still — it  does  seem  strange." 

She  went  up  to  Mary's  room,  and  found  it  perfectly  in  order 
— but  for  one  thing.  The  small  fireplace  was  full  of  fluttering 
ashes  and  half-burned  typewritten  paper,  some  of  which,  by 
reason  of  a  light  wind  of  the  past  night,  had  blown  out  upon 
the  floor  and  littered  it  untidily.  Miss  Graham  swept  these 
up  herself,  setting  a  match  to  the  unconsumed  remains. 


82  FOURSQUARE 

"I  don't  see,"  she  mused  as  she  watched  them  rapidly 
flame  up,  "why  it  seems  to  be  so  difficult  for  her  now,  when 
always  before,  as  she  has  told  me,  it  was  so  easy.  Perhaps — 
perhaps  she  is  trying  to  do  something  too  hard  for  her.  I 
wonder — if  that  is  necessary." 

Already,  a  hundred  miles  away,  Mary  could  have  told  her 
that  it  was  necessary.  Her  courage  had  risen  a  little  with  the 
mere  getting  away.  Eliza,  watching  her,  had  thought  her 
"excited  and  pleased";  she  had  been  precisely  that,  and  her 
light  talk  as  she  hurriedly  ate  and  drank,  that  early  morning, 
had  been  the  sign  of  her  relief  at  the  thought  that  for  this 
day  and  to-morrow  she  was  not  to  be  roaming  wood  and  plain 
in  the  vain  search  for  the  undiscoverable. 

All  that  day,  in  the  train,  her  fellow  passengers  were  drawn 
to  observe  her,  they  knew  not  why.  It  was  as  if  someone 
were  among  them  who  was  not  like  the  other  women  in  the 
car.  The  perfection  of  her  travelling  clothes,  the  peculiar 
charm  of  her  face,  with  its  look  of  intensity,  her  quiet  in- 
difference to  any  observation,  did  not  wholly  account  for 
the  interest  she  roused.  Men  watched  her  furtively  from 
behind  newspapers;  women  openly  scanned  and  studied  her. 

"She's  an  actress,  /'//  say,"  one  feminine  passenger  across 
the  aisle  whispered  to  another.  "She  hasn't  once  looked 
at  anybody.  That's  for  effect — it  isn't  natural.  I  heard  her 
voice  once  when  she  spoke  to  the  porter — it  was  a  regular 
stage  voice.  It  seems  as  if  I'd  seen  her  face  somewhere,  too." 

This  might  easily  have  been  true.  Many  times  had  Mary 
Fletcher's  face  appeared  in  magazine  advertising  columns. 

"Maybe  she's  a  movie  actress,"  speculated  her  companion. 

The  other  shook  her  head.  "Mm-mm,"  she  negatived. 
"More  likely  one  of  those  society  business  women.  There's 
an  air  about  her — just  the  way  there  is  about  them.  You 
can  buy  things  of  'em — but  you  can't  touch  'em." 

These  two  women  tried  in  vain  to  make  inroads  into  Mary's 


A  BRIDGE  BUILDER  83 

close-drawn  privacy.  In  vain  they  made  geneial  obser- 
vations in  the  too-small  dressing  room,  or  drew  aside  with 
smiling  apologies  when  a  lurch  of  the  car  or  influx  of  other 
women  crowded  them  against  the  stranger  who  had  so  roused 
their  interest.  Mary's  preparations  for  sleep  were  rapid  and 
discreet;  not  once  could  they  so  much  as  meet  her  eyes  in  one 
of  the  mirrors  which  prevent  the  possibility  of  withdrawal 
from  the  curious.  She  would  have  secured  a  stateroom  if 
it  had  been  possible,  so  late;  forced  into  contact  with  fellow 
human  beings  of  her  own  sex,  in  an  atmosphere  redolent  of 
talcums  and  toilet  waters,  her  present  mood  and  manner 
surrounded  her  with  an  invisible  wall  there  was  no  breaking 
through,  though  she  was  only  slightly  conscious  of  rearing  it. 

The  truth  was  that  the  whole  journey  was  to  her  a  mere 
necessary  interval  between  the  state  she  had  left  and  that 
into  which  she  hoped  to  emerge.  She  was  as  completely  in- 
sulated ^rom  all  contact  with  these  people  as  if  she  had  been 
alone.  Trained  to  observe,  as  a  rule  professionally  concerned 
with  the  actions  and  reactions  of  all  whom  she  met,  she  was 
making  this  journey  as  one  who  has  suffered  a  bereavement 
travels  with  veil  down  and  eyes  averted;  the  inner  conscious- 
ness shutting  away  all  immediate  environment. 

But  morning  found  her  where  she  longed  to  be.  It  was 
barely  nine  o'clock  when  Alexandra  Warren  in  her  suburban 
home,  stooping  over  a  trunk  she  was  packing,  heard  a  joyful 
cry. 

"Oh,  Sandy,  Sandy!  Heaven  is  merciful,  and  you  haven't 
gone!  I  didn't  dare  wire  before  I  started,  to  find  out.  I  had 
to  come,  anyway — bless  your  dear,  delightful  back.  It  would 
have  been  worth  coming  for,  just  to  see  your  back,  even  if  you 
hadn't  turned  round!" 

"Why,  Mary  Fletcher!" 

There  succeeded  one  of  those  impetuous  embraces  with 
which  Mary  had  been  accustomed,  after  long  intervals  of 


84  FOURSQUARE 

rather  boyish  distaste  for  manifestations  of  affection,  to  show 
unexpected  emotion  over  her  best  friend.  The  way  in  which 
she  now  clung  to  Alexandra,  laughing  and  half  crying,  shed 
instant  light  upon  that  wise  woman's  mind. 

"Let  me  look  at  you,"  demanded  Alexandra,  holding  Mary 
off  at  arm's  length.  "Yes,  I  thought  so.  You've  been  having 
a  bad  time  over  something,  and  have  reached  the  limit  of 
your  restraint.  But — my  dear — I  never  saw  you  so  thin — 
and  worn.  Your  eyes — why,  child — what  is  the  matter?" 

"Haven't  slept  for  two  nights — that's  all.  I'm  all  right, 
really.  That  is,  I'm — all — wrong!" 

Alexandra  sat  down.  She  pulled  a  pillow  off  a  couch  and 
dropped  it  at  her  own  feet. 

"Sit  down  there,  and  put  your  head  on  my  knee,  and  tell 
me  all  about  it,"  she  commanded. 

"I  shall  die — if  I  can't,"  Mary  said,  biting  her  lip  because 
it  trembled.  "And  I'm  afraid  I  can't.  But  I've  got  to  make 
you  understand — some  of  it." 

"You  may  not  find  me  so  dull." 

"Oh,  Sandy " 

She  put  her  head  down  in  Alexandra  Warren's  lap  and 
broke  into  wild  sobbing.  It  was  no  summer  shower,  it  was  a 
storm  from  the  beginning,  but  before  it  was  over  it  became 
a  tempest.  In  vain  her  friend  tried  to  soothe  and  quiet — in 
the  end  she  became  alarmed. 

"Mary,  stop!  You  must  stop,  dear!  Why,  I  shall  have 
to  send  for  a  doctor,  if  you  don't.  Let  me  get  you  some  va- 
lerian— Well,  then — control  yourself.  You  can — you  must! 
—Mary!" 

Suddenly,  almost  as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun,  the  sob- 
bing passed.  "I  won't — any  more,"  a  shuddering  whisper 
declared.  "I — didn't  know  it  was  coming,  or  I — no,  I 
think  it  had  to  come!  I  hate  to  cry — I  don't  cry — I  detest 
crying  won;en.  But " 


A  BRIDGE  BUILDER  85 

"Never  mind — the  pressure  had  to  be  relieved  somehow, 
and  you'll  be  better  now.  It's  not  like  you  and  it  makes  me 
anxious.  Something  must  be  radically  wrong,  Mary.  I'm 
afraid  you  have  tried  to  go  to  work  too  soon.  Is  it  the  work 
that  worries  you?" 

So  Mary  told  her — all  that  she  could  tell.  After  all,  it 
was  not  much.  It  seldom  is  much  that  can  be  told  of  the 
spirit's  real  distress.  But  from  the  recital,  now  halting, 
now  fiery,  Alexandra  became  more  and  more  sure  that  Mary 
was  at  a  crisis  in  her  life's  experience  through  which  she  must 
have  the  wisest  human  counsel  that  her  friend  could  give — 
or  that  she  would  take — for  the  giving  and  the  receiving  of 
counsel  are  two  mightily  different  things,  as  the  older  woman 
had  long  ago  discovered. 

"So  I've  come,"  concluded  Mary,  sitting  back  on  her  feet 
and  passing  her  two  hands  across  her  now  flushed  cheeks, 
"to  get  this  over  with  you  and  then  go  into  town  and  see — 
the  one  person  who  can  give  me  back  any  confidence  in  my- 
self. He's  always  done  it — I  don't  know  how — and  if  any- 
body can  now,  he  can.  A  month  ago  I  wouldn't  see  him  or 
tell  him  anything,  though  he  came  up  on  purpose.  Now — 
just  all  at  once — I  can  hardly  wait  to  see  him!" 

"Mr.  Kirkwood?"     Alexandra  looked  disturbed. 

"Of  course.  Oh,  my  wireless  is  tuned  to  his — it  always 
has  been,  though  I  wouldn't  acknowledge  it.  The  awful 
truth  is — and  that's  what's  been  driving  me  frantic — that  the 
suspicion  has  been  growing  and  growing  that  I — can't  do 
anything  without  him!" 

"Oh,  no!"  The  exclamation  was  one  of  deep  dissent. 
"Why,  think  of  the  almost  two  years  you  were  away  from 
him,  in  France.  You  were  doing  absolutely  independent 
work " 

"That  was  entirely  different.  I  had  every  stimulus.  I 
couldn't  help  writing  of  what  I  saw — and  divined.  But 


86  FOURSQUARE 

back  here" — Mary  made  a  gesture  of  unhappy  abandon 
— "Oh,  perhaps  I  didn't  realize  it,  but  I  think  I  did,  in  a 
way — he — he — why,  he  just  had  me  in  the  hollow  of  his 
hand.  The  only  thing  I  ever  did  without  him  was — that 
abominable  trash  I  wrote  when  I  first  came  back — to  prove 
that  I  was  independent.  Do  you  wonder  I  ran  away? — 
And  now — oh,  shame  on  me,  I  suppose,  but  I'm  so  desperate 
I  can't  help  it! — I'm  going  back  to  him." 

"My  dear!  Are  you  sure  that's  best?  Not  that  I  don't 
admire  John  Kirkwood — and  trust  his  advice — to  a  certain 
extent.  But  I  don't  like  this  confession  of  his  power  over 
you.  Now  that  you've  broken  away  from  his  influence  for  a 
time,  hadn't  you  better — well — fight  it  out,  this  struggle  for 
independence?" 

She  sat  looking  steadily  across  into  Mary's  face,  though 
Mary's  eyes  after  an  instant  dropped  away  from  her.  Miss 
Warren's  own  eyes  were  very  fine,  their  gaze  clear  and  dis- 
cerning. The  city  librarian,  in  her  years  of  work,  had  made 
very  many  human  contacts,  had  learned  to  read  facts  in  faces 
and  subtleties  in  speech.  Not  for  nothing  had  she  known 
many  of  the  best  and  wisest  of  the  men  and  women  of  the 
great  city.  Her  ideals  were  very  high,  her  love  for  Mary 
very  great;  her  faith  in  her  ability,  in  spite  of  the  all  but  dis- 
maying confession  of  her  dependence  on  another  mind,  pre- 
sumably keener  and  stronger  than  her  own,  was  only  slightly 
shaken  by  this  new  knowledge.  But  now — she  suffered  a 
shock  greater  than  that  which  she  had  lately  received. 

Mary  slowly  lifted  her  eyes  again  and  in  them  was  written 
a  misery  so  deep  that  her  friend's  heart  sank. 

"Sandy,"  she  said,  very  low,  "I'd  like  to  take  that  advice 
— I  would  indeed.  I've  been  giving  it  to  myself  all  these 
weeks  of  struggle.  But  the  bitter  truth  is — I've  grown  afraid 
that  if  I  don't  write  something  coherent — workman-like — 
pretty  soon — I  never  will.  I'm — why,  Sandy — I'm  just  plain 


A  BRIDGE  BUILDER  87 

scared !  Do  you  know  what  that  means  ?  Scared — so  that 
I  can't  sleep!  Scared,  so  that — oh,  I  can't  tell  you!  I  sup- 
pose if  I  went  to  a  doctor  he'd  call  it  nervous  depression. 
It's  not  that  and  I'm  not  going  to  any  doctor.  The  only 
cure  for  me  is  to  produce  something  that  I'm  proud  of,  so 
that  I  can  feel  again  that  amazing  tonic  of  success.  If  I  can 
once  do  that — even  if  I  do  it  with  John  Kirkwood's  help — I 
think  I'll  be  strong  again,  to — break  away.  But — I  guess 
I'm  like  a  drunkard  who  has  to  be  sobered  off  on — more 
whiskey.  It  doesn't  always  do  to  take  the  prop  away  all  at 
once." 

Alexandra  studied  again  the  exquisite  worn  young  face 
before  her,  noted  afresh  the  look  of  strain.  She  recalled 
hours  of  wild  joy  in  the  past  when  the  author  had  com- 
pleted a  difficult  task  and  had  seemed  for  hours  thereafter 
exalted  to  some  heaven  of  her  own.  In  succeeding  hours  she 
might  suffer  a  corresponding  reaction  and  be  weary  to  ex- 
haustion, though  still  so  happy  that  she  would  cry  out  that 
it  was  worth  it.  Alexandra  was  forced  in  her  own  mind 
\eluctantly  to  admit  that  it  might  be  Mary  had  been  too  long 
without  this  necessary  stimulus  of  reward,  and  that  she  must 
have  again  the  relief  of  consultation  with  this  other  mind 
which  had  the  power  to  lift  her  to  heights  of  accomplishment. 
At  any  rate,  it  was  clear  to  her  that  she  could  not  attempt  to 
defeat  Mary's  plans  at  this  late  hour.  The  only  thing  that 
she  could  do  was  to  stand  by  her — a  conclusion  curiously 
like  one  which  had  been  arrived  at  less  than  twenty-four 
hours  before,  by  another  friend  of  Mary's  whom  Alexandra 
had  never  met. 

"Very  well,  dear/'  she  said,  rising  with  decision.  "You 
said  you  meant  to  take  the  next  train  in  to  Mr.  Kirkwood's 
office.  That  leaves  at  nine  forty.  I  can  easily  be  ready, 
and  I'll  go  with  you.  If  need  be,  I'll  stay  in  town  until 
your  conferences  with  him  are  over,  even  though  they  take 


88  FOURSQUARE 

some  days.  Or  you  can  come  back  out  with  me  here  each 
night- 

"Oh — but  it's  your  vacation " 

"That  doesn't  matter.  I'm  not  specially  tired  and  can 
spare  a  few  days  as  well  as  not.  Besides,  being  with  you 
again,  after  all  these  months,  will  be  better  than  a  vacation." 

Mary  looked  her  friend  in  her  clear  eyes,  her  own  showing 
a  little  bloodshot  through  her  thick  lashes.  "Oh,  but  you 
are  a  trump!"  was  her  grateful  tribute.  "If  I  didn't  need 
you  so  I  wouldn't  allow  it,  but — I'm  afraid  I'm  too  weak  to 
resist." 

An  hour  later,  in  the  city,  the  pair  were  shot  upward  to 
the  high  floor  of  the  crowded  downtown  building  in  which  were 
The  Centrepiece  offices.  Mary  Fletcher's  eyes  were  now  bright 
with  excitement,  the  look  of  weariness  which  had  been  so 
noteworthy  had  vanished.  The  mere  thought  of  an  inter- 
view with  this  man  was  keying  her  to  tension  again. 

"Mr.  Kirkwood's  out  of  town,"  said  a  laconic  office  boy, 
new  to  the  place  and  unacquainted  with  Miss  Fletcher's 
standing  as  a  contributor  to  the  magazine. 

"Oh!"     Mary  breathed  it  like  a  sigh  of  despair. 

"When  will  he  be  back?"  Alexandra  asked. 

"Thursday." 

"Could  he  be  reached  before  then?" 

"Don't  think  so.  He  didn't  leave  any  forwarding  ad- 
dress." 

Alexandra  was  not  sure  that  this  was  true,  but  nothing 
further  could  be  elicited  from  the  boy.  She  asked  for  a  sub- 
editor whose  name  she  knew,  but  Mary  hastily  interposed, 
under  her  breath:  "No,  no,  Sandy.  We'll  go.  This  is 
Tuesday.  I'd  rather  wait." 

Outside  in  the  cab  she  explained.  "I  don't  want  him  called 
back  for  me — I  want  to  come  in  upon  him  when  he  doesn't 
expect  me." 


A  BRIDGE  BUILDER  89 

"Will  you  go  back  home  with  me,  dear?" 

"No,  I'll  stay  in  town.     It's  not  very  hot  just  now." 

"Then  I'll  stay  with  you." 

"No,  I  won't  have  it." 

"Then  you  must  come  back  with  me.  Be  reasonable, 
Mary.  You  are  worn  out.  The  two  days'rest  will  be  good 
for  you  before  you  see  Mr.  Kirkwood.  I  can  make  you 
very  comfortable." 

They  fought  it  out  for  several  minutes,  Mary  finally  yield- 
ing. Back  in  the  pleasant  suburban  town  she  gave  herself  up 
to  her  friend's  ministrations,  outwardly,  at  least.  The  two 
days  were  got  through  somehow.  On  Thursday  morning  Alex- 
andra took  the  precaution  of  telephoning  in  to  the  office, 
learning  that  Mr.  Kirkwood  had  wired  that  his  return  would 
be  delayed  until  the  morrow.  At  this  news  Mary  went 
quite  out  of  her  head,  announcing  that  she  must  do  some- 
thing or  she  couldn't  endure  it.  This  time  it  was  Alexandra 
who  yielded,  accompanied  Mary  to  a  New  York  hotel,  and 
went  with  her  on  a  ceaseless  round  of  supposed  diversion, 
beginning  with  shopping  and  ending  amid  the  blare  of  a  sum- 
mer musical  comedy  offering  which  outraged  every  sensi- 
bility and  left  both  women  feeling  besmirched  and  wearied 
beyond  expression. 

"Poor  Sandy — what  a  way  to  spend  the  first  days  of  your 
precious  vacation!"  mourned  Mary.  "I'm  a  fiend  to  permit 
it.  I'm  desperately  ashamed  of  myself  for  dragging  you 
back  here,  yet  I  don't  know  how  I'd  have  lived  without  you. 
Anyhow,  it's  over  now.  One  more  night — and  I'm  going 
to  sleep  if  I  have  to  drug  for  it." 

All  nightmares  end,  however,  and  this  one  came  to  its  finish 
with  the  announcement  of  the  office  boy  next  morning. 

"Yes,  ma'am.   Mr.  Kirkwood's  in.  Just  got  back.    Card?" 

Mary  sent  it  in,  her  heart  throbbing  disconcertingly. 
Could  she  be  the  same  person  who  had  so  high  and  mightily 


90  FOURSQUARE 

dismissed  the  editor  on  a  certain  summer  evening,  conveying 
so  accurately  to  him  her  indifference  to  his  presence  that  he 
was  stung  into  refusing  to  return  next  day? 

Two  minutes  later  an  inner  door  opened,  and  a  tall  figure, 
clad  in  the  freshest  of  light  summer  apparel,  came  rapidly  for- 
ward. The  light  in  John  Kirkwood's  eyes  spoke  his  aston- 
ished pleasure. 

"Mary  Fletcher! — Miss  Warren!  Why,  this  is  wonderful 
of  you!  When  did  you  come?  Why  didn't  you  let  me 
know?" 

His  eyes  studied  Mary's  face  and  concern  appeared  in 
his  own. 

"I  thought  it  would  be  rather  fun  to  surprise  you,"  Mary 
told  him.  "I  ran  down  to  see  Alexandra  and — well — I 
really  wanted  to  see  you,  too — to  talk  things  over." 

"You  are  tired,"  he  said  abruptly.  "You  don't  want  to 
talk  in  this  hot  office,  I'm  sure.  Just  wait,  please,  while  I 
dispose  of  a  few  details — I've  been  away  for  a  week. — Then 
I'm  at  your  service." 

"Are  you  sure  you  can  spare  the  time?" 

"Unquestionably — for  you.  We'll  go  somewhere,  to  a  cool 
and  quiet  spot,  if  there's  one  to  be  had,  and  spend  the  whole 
day." 

It  took  him  long  enough,  however,  to  arrange  his  affairs, 
to  prove  to  his  guests  that  getting  loose  again  wasn't  quite  as 
easy  as  he  would  have  them  think.  Brief  consultations  with 
various  members  of  his  staff,  rapid  decisions  of  matters 
brought  to  his  attention  by  one  and  another,  telephone  talks, 
short  personal  interviews  with  persons  who  had  appoint- 
ments— Alexandra  caught  enough  glimpses  of  the  editor  in 
action  to  appreciate  what  he  was  about  to  do  for  Mary.  In 
due  time,  however,  he  came  to  them,  hat  in  hand. 

"There's  a  motor  waiting  below,  and  a  lunch  is  being  put 
up  at  a  very  good  place  where  we'll  stop  on  our  way.  If 


A  BRIDGE  BUILDER  91 

you'll  permit  me  I'm  simply  going  to  take  charge  of  things 
and  carry  you  both  off  for  the  day  and  evening.  I  think  I 
can  plan  a  programme  which  will  prove  sufficiently  refreshing 
to  justify  my  being  high-handed  about  it." 

"I  think  we're  both  glad  to  have  you  high-handed,"  Alex- 
andra assured  him.  She  had  never  liked  John  Kirkwcod  so 
well  as  she  did  to-day.  After  her  struggles  during  three  days 
to  handle  the  difficult  problem  of  Mary's  breakdown — for 
such  she  felt  it  to  be — it  was  a  tremendous  relief  to  hand  it 
over,  if  only  for  a  day,  to  this  capable  man  who  evidently 
meant  to  take  things  in  hand,  man  fashion,  and  dispose  of  all 
difficulties. 

Kirkwood  carried  a  well-stuffed  brief-case  and  a  couple 
of  books  besides. 

"I've  picked  up  several  good  things  in  my  absence,"  he 
remarked,  as  they  fled  uptown  in  a  large  closed  car  so  shin- 
ingly  new  and  luxurious  that  it  betrayed  no  sign  of  having 
been  hired.  "These  two  books  I'll  engage  will  keep  even 
surh  an  exacting  critic  as  you  absorbed  while  Mary  and  I  go 
over  whatever  affairs  she  has  in  mind.  I've  some  matters 
of  my  own  I  want  to  consult  her  about,  as  well,  if  she'll  give 
me  the  chance.  Your  coming  couldn't  have  been  more 
timely.  I  was  just  'wishin'  to  go  a-fishin" — and  that  with 
Mary  Fletcher  herself." 

His  eyes  met  Mary's.  He  himself  had  been  away  upon  a 
vacation,  preceding  the  interesting  business  trip  from  which 
he  had  just  returned,  and  she  had  rarely  seen  him  looking  so 
well.  The  usual  tired  lines  were  gone  from  his  face;  his  lean, 
long  body  had  filled  out  by  a  matter  of  many  pounds;  his 
colour  was  that  of  the  outdoor  life  he  had  been  for  the  most 
part  living  for  a  month.  Even  his  clothes,  to  eyes  for  the  last 
half  year  grown  accustomed  to  the  somewhat  careless  dress- 
ing of  the  average  man  in  the  small  college  town,  were  re- 
freshing to  note. 


92  FOURSQUARE 

"You  don't  look  as  if  you'd  ever  gone  fishing  in  your  life, 
except  for  authors,"  Mary  observed. 

"Ah,  that's  my  new  suit,  of  which  I'm  inordinately  proud 
— because  my  tailor  had  to  let  his  tape-line  slip  along  a  couple 
of  extra  inches  over  my  chest — and  expressed  his  surprise 
thereat.  Even  though  by  December  I've  shrunk  to  emacia- 
tion again  I  shall  comfort  myself  by  taking  a  look  at  these 
clothes,  hanging  in  my  press,  and  telling  myself  that  what 
has  been  can  be  again — next  midsummer  vacation." 

But  he  didn't  tell  her  what  he  was  thinking — that  if  she 
didn't  stop  growing  thin  and  worn  she  would  some  day  lose 
her  look  of  enchanting  youth  which  had  thus  far,  through 
all  her  days  of  work  and  experience,  merely  grown  inter- 
estingly mature.  As  yet  she  was  touchingly  attractive  in 
these  signs  of  harassment  and  fatigue.  But  he  knew  full 
well  that  all  too  soon  there  might  come  upon  her  that  fatal 
change  which  marks  the  borderline  between  two  well-defined 
stages  of  life,  across  which  there  is  no  going  back.  How  to 
arrest  her  progress  toward  that  line  had  been  uppermost  in  his 
mind  ever  since  he  had  set  eyes  upon  her  to-day. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  CHALLENGE 

IRKWOOD  could  hardly  have  chosen 
a  cleverer  course  than  that  which  he 
now  pursued.  He  wanted  to  get  Mary 
out  of  the  hot  city,  and  yet  the  open 
country  was  not  his  goal.  She  had 
had  enough,  he  considered,  of  Nature 
unshaven  and  unshorn,  of  wildwood 
and  rocky  glen.  An  ordered  Nature, 
an  out-of-doors  trimmed  and  finished, 
remindful  of  the  resources  of  the  city's 
wealth — this  must  be  the  setting  for 
their  day  together.  The  car  flew  to- 
ward a  certain  great  estate,  the  for- 
mer home  of  one  of  the  names  of 
American  history,  closed  to  the  gen- 
eral public,  the  picturesque  old  man- 
sion unoccupied  except  by  a  caretaker. 
Kirkwood  was  confident,  however,  of 
securing  permission  to  spend  the  day 
in  the  grounds,  and  even  to  take  his 
guests  into  the  distinguished  old 
house,  full  of  relics  and  of  suggestion. 
"Oh,  what  a  delightful  spot!" 
Mary  cried  when  presently  she  found 
herself  established  on  a  velvety  green 
bank  under  magnificent  spreading 
trees,  the  blue  river  lying  broad  be- 
93 


94  FOURSQUARE 

neath  her  feet,  with  gray-green  shores  beyond.  Behind  her, 
the  ivy-covered  stone  walls  of  the  famous  mansion  made  a 
background,  when  she  turned  her  head,  for  the  figures  of  her 
two  friends.  A  caretaker,  with  a  large  fee  in  his  pocket,  had 
brought  out  quaint  chairs  and  table,  a  rug  and  cushions. 
Mary  felt  a  little  like  a  princess,  with  anything  she  might  de- 
sire at  her  disposal.  For  the  moment  care  dropped  away  from 
her;  she  found  herself  wishing  to  see  the  contents  of  the 
hamper  which  had  come  on  board  before  they  left  the  city. 
The  place  from  which  it  had  been  brought  out  had  been  a 
guarantee  of  those  contents. 

"Hungry?"  asked  John  Kirkwood  blithely,  the  second 
time  he  caught  Mary's  glance  wandering  toward  the  hamper. 

"Famished!  Isn't  it  time  to  eat?  I  haven't  wanted  food 
for  ages;  now  I  can  hardly  wait." 

"Good!  We'll  get  to  it  at  once.  I  hope  they've  put  in 
what  will  appeal  to  us." 

He  had  spared  no  pains,  it  became  evident,  to  suit  what 
he  had  guessed  might  be  a  capricious  taste.  As  she  ate  de- 
licious food,  and  drank  pleasing  iced  beverages,  Mary  began 
to  feel  the  weight  upon  her  spirits  lift  a  little.  It  certainly 
was  comforting  to  be  so  considered  and  cared  for,  and  some- 
how to  have  such  a  man  as  Kirkwood  taking  such  thought  for 
her  was  subtly  flattering.  It  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that 
she  had  never  quite  appreciated,  in  her  past  association  with 
him  in  the  great  city,  how  really  pleasing  he  was  in  personal 
appearance,  not  to  consider  how  agreeable  were  his  man- 
ner and  speech.  Just  once,  as  she  sat  listening  to  his  enter- 
taining talk,  the  image  of  Mark  Fenn  came  into  her  mind. 
The  contrast  between  the  two  men  struck  her  afresh  as  that 
between  the  man  who  lives  his  life  closely  in  touch  with  hu- 
man affairs  and  interest,  and  him  who  remains  secluded  in  a 
small  world  of  thought  and  limited  action.  Mark  Fenn  had 
told  her  he  would  "stand  by."  Could  he  possibly  know  how 


A  CHALLENGE  95 

to  give  her  even  the  beginning  of  such  a  sense  of  well-being 
and  comradeship  as  could  this  man  who  smiled  at  her  across 
the  little  feast  he  had  made  for  her,  and  with  whom  she  was 
about  to  have  a  conference  such  as  would — she  knew  it  al- 
ready— clarify  for  her  her  befogged  and  labouring  brain 
and  make  her  want  to  work  again?  Hardly!  There  could 
be  but  one  answer  to  that.  She  told  herself  that  Mark  Fenn 
didn't  know  even  the  alphabet  of  the  language  which  John 
Kirkwood  could  speak  with  ease. 

The  hamper  was  repacked  and  set  away.  Kirkwood  made 
Miss  Warren  comfortable,  pointed  out  certain  outstanding 
chapters  in  the  books  he  was  leaving  with  her,  tucked  a  rug 
and  a  cushion  under  his  arm  and  frankly  asked: 

"Are  you  game,  dear  lady,  to  be  left  a  considerable  while? 
I've  a  notion  we  shall  be  rather  likely  to  forget  how  time  is 
passing  while  we  talk  shop.  But  we  sha'n't  be  far  away — a 
a  call  will  bring  us  even  though  we're  out  of  sight.  I  want 
Mary  to  forget  all  sense  of  duty,  even  to  your  kind  self." 

"You  need  have  none  at  all."  Alexandra  Warren  settled 
herself,  too  accustomed  to  this  role  to  resent  it,  and  too  anx- 
ious for  Mary's  welfare  not  to  welcome  it,  even  though  it 
obviously  made  of  herself  a  mere  accessory. 

A  few  rods  farther  up  the  river,  in  a  spot  still  more  coolly 
secluded  by  heavy  tree  growth  than  that  of  the  lunching 
place,  though  open  at  one  point  to  the  river  sparkling  in  the 
sunlight,  Kirkwood  spread  his  rug  and  placed  his  cushion. 

"How  would  you  like  to  take  a  little  sleep  while  I  smoke  a 
pipe  not  far  away  and  keep  guard  ?"  he  suggested.  "Wouldn't 
you  be  fitter  for  our  confab  for  a  bit  of  rest  first  ?  We've  all 
been  talking  rather  uninterruptedly." 

Mary  dropped  upon  the  rug,  took  off  her  hat,  and  laid  her 
head  upon  the  cushion — it  was  of  a  rich  blue  and  made  a 
pleasant  background,  as  she  had  already  noted  that  it  would. 
Her  fondness  for  colour  was  strong,  a  fact  of  which  Kirk- 


96  FOURSQUARE 

wood  was  not  unaware.  The  caretaker  had  offered  him  a 
choice  of  cushions. 

"I'd  love  it — for  just  a  few  minutes."  Mary  smiled  up  at 
him.  She  felt  more  like  herself  than  she  had  been  for  many 
weeks.  "I'll  just  play  sleep,  for  the  length  of  one  pipe — 
and  then  please  come  back." 

"You  tempt  me  to  pack  it  lightly,"  he  said,  as  he  strolled 
away. 

When  he  glanced  back,  from  a  discreet  distance  through 
the  trees,  he  noted  with  satisfaction  how  completely  the 
slender  figure  seemed  to  have  relaxed  upon  the  rug  with  the 
arms  thrown  back  and  clasped  above  the  head,  the  face 
turned  upward.  He  thought  she  was  probably  staring  up 
into  the  heavy  green  leafage  above  and  knew  that  if  it  were 
so  not  even  sleep  could  be  better  medicine  for  a  mind  ill  at 
ease.  For  that  Mary's  mind  was  just  now  a  stronghold  for 
ravaging  discomfort  he  had  read  at  the  first  glance. 

"I  want,"  said  John  Kirkwood  slowly,  "to  tell  you  a 
story." 

He  lay  stretched  on  his  side  upon  the  turf,  at  Mary's  feet, 
his  head  propped  upon  his  hand.  He  was  looking  at  the 
blue  water  shimmering  in  the  distance  between  the  low  drop- 
ping branches  of  the  great  oaks  beneath  which  the  consul- 
tation had  been  held. 

Consultation  ?  Rather  had  it  been  a  clinic,  or  so  both  had 
felt  without  saying  so.  Kirkwood,  however,  had  not  made  a 
complete  diagnosis;  for  the  present  he  was  postponing  opera- 
tion. 

Mary  had  made  almost  a  clean  breast  of  it — she  could  not 
do  otherwise.  He  knew  now  as  nearly  as  she  could  tell  him 
how  deeply  despair  had  laid  hold  upon  her.  The  one  thing 
she  had  not  told  him — could  not  bring  herself  to  it — was  the 
humiliating  fact  of  her  dependence  upon  himself.  If  he 


A  CHALLENGE  97 

had  guessed  this  feature  of  her  trouble  he  had  shown  no 
sign. 

"It's  a  long  story,"  he  said — and  filled  his  pipe  again 
with  a  word  of  apology.  "  I  can  talk  better,"  he  explained. 

"You  always  could.     It's  a  tremendous  advantage." 

He  began  with  deliberation  of  speech,  sketching  in  the 
background  of  his  story.  He  did  this  vividly,  with  few 
words,  as  a  skilful  reporter  might.  Then  he  began  to  tell  the 
tale. 

As  it  went  forward,  presently  he  drew  himself  up  to  a  sitting 
position,  though  his  eyes  still  remained  upon  the  sparkling 
blue  water  through  the  trees.  Then,  suddenly,  having 
reached  a  point  in  the  story  where  events  began  to  quicken, 
situations  to  develop,  characters  to  strengthen,  he  began  to 
speak  faster,  and  now  and  again  he  glanced  at  his  listener. 
He  found  her  eyes  upon  him  with  a  peculiar  intensity  of  gaze, 
denoting  entire  concentration.  He  had  been  a  little  doubt- 
ful, when  he  had  begun,  whether  he  could  secure  this.  She 
had  been  so  absorbed  in  her  own  troubles,  he  had  feared  lest 
he  could  not  obtain  complete  control  of  her  attention.  It 
was  very  necessary  to  his  purpose  to  do  this,  and  as  he  now 
received  assurance  that  he  had  succeeded,  his  ability  to 
speak  effectively  increased. 

He  got  to  his  feet  and  stood  before  her,  leaning  against 
a  tree-trunk,  his  pipe  grasped  by  the  bowl,  its  fires  extinct. 
He  needed  no  other  stimulation  now  than  that  of  her  intent 
interest.  With  all  the  art  at  his  command  he  brought  his 
recital  along  toward  its  climax,  each  minor  crisis  a  dramatic 
triumph  in  itself,  the  whole  effect  growing  in  power  with  each 
successive  unfolding  of  the  extraordinary  plot.  As  he  came 
to  the  final  scenes  he  lost  himself  in  his  own  absorption  in  his 
theme.  He  became  actor  as  well  as  speaker;  unconscious 
slight  gestures  with  the  hand  which  held  the  pipe  bowl, 
changes  of  facial  and  vocal  expression  illuminating  the  drama 


98  FOURSQUARE 

of  his  conclusion  till,  as  he  ended,  he  was  as  a  man  inspired, 
the  fires  he  had  lighted  in  his  own  imagination  glowing  in  his 
every  aspect.  Quite  of  himself,  thus,  apart  from  the  story 
he  had  told,  he  had  become  an  irresistible  object  of  interest. 
As  for  the  story  itself 

For  a  minute,  after  the  telling  had  ended,  the  two  pairs  of 
eyes  continued  to  look  into  each  other,  each  held  by  the  pro- 
found impression  of  the  story's  climax.  Then  Mary's  eyes 
dropped  and  Kirkwood  turned  away  to  stride  off  among  the 
trees  for  a  few  paces.  Wheeling,  he  came  back,  to  see  her 
pressing  both  hands  over  her  eyes,  a  great  breath  swelling  her 
throat. 

He  dropped  upon  the  ground  again  and  lay  silent,  his  own 
pulses  racing.  The  tale  had  gripped  him  in  the  telling  be- 
yond any  anticipation  he  could  have  had  of  such  effect  upon 
himself.  What  the  hearing  had  done  to  Mary  Fletcher  he 
could  guess  from  his  past  knowledge  of  her,  and  his  present 
recognition  of  her  stirred  and  shaken  state.  Emotionally 
unstrung  as  he  had  known  her  to  be,  and  as  she  had  shown 
herself  in  her  own  recital,  he  realized  that  he  had  taken 
advantage,  as  he  had  never  so  ventured  to  do  before,  of  her 
susceptibility  to  approach.  To  put  it  as  it  really  was,  he 
had  come  nearer  to  breaking  down  her  guard  than  he  had  ever 
done — indeed,  for  the  moment,  she  seemed  to  have  no  guard 
at  all. 

He  left  it  to  her  to  end  the  long  silence.  It  took  some 
time  for  her  to  reach  the  point  where  she  could  speak. 

"Where  did  you — get  that  story?"  she  asked  at  last,  with 
some  constraint. 

He  smiled.  He  wouldn't  have  been  human  if  it  hadn't 
given  him  pleasure  to  answer  that  question.  But  he  tried  to 
answer  it  with  modesty.  He  hadn't  known  quite  how  good 
the  thing  was  till  he  had  tried  it  on  this  ideal  listener.  It 
was  like  drawing  a  new  bow  one  had  made  across  the  strings 


A  CHALLENGE  99 

of  a  perfect  violin — the  tone  had  been  unexpectedly  rich  and 
vibrant. 

"I've  been  working  it  out  for  a  long  time,"  he  explained. 
"Somehow  I  had  to  do  it — I  couldn't  get  away  from  it." 

"I  shouldn't  think  you  could.  Do  you  mean — it  is  all — 
yours?" 

He  nodded.  "A  poor  thing,  but  mine  own.  No — I 
won't  pretend  I  think  it  poor — it  got  hold  of  me  too  deeply 
for  that.  But  until  you  heard  it  I  wasn't  so  sure.  I  wanted 
your  reaction  to  it.  I  had  it.  So  now  I  know  there's  some- 
thing in  it." 

"You  are  going  to — write  it?" 

It  was  his  cue  to  delay  the  answer  to  that.  It  was  for 
his  advantage  to  keep  her  in  suspense  a  little  longer.  He 
filled  and  lighted  his  pipe  once  more,  first  knocking  out  the 
heel.  A  man  may  always  do  this  before  he  speaks — somehow 
a  woman  always  excuses  the  delay.  Kirkwood  performed 
the  ceremony  with  deliberation,  while  Mary  watched  each 
motion  of  his  slim,  lean  hands.  When  finally  he  spoke  it  was 
after  a  succession  of  puffs  and  through  an  ascending  cloud  of 
blue-gray  smoke. 

"  I  wish  I  could  write  it,  but — it's  as  impossible  as  any  of 
the  labours  of  Hercules." 

"But — you  could  conceive  it!" 

He  nodded.  "That's  different.  It's  my  trade  to  study 
construction — to  criticize  it — to  delight  in  it.  But  I 
could  no  more  put  that  book  on  paper — it  should  make 
a  book  of  good  size — than  I  could  build  this  oak  beside 
us." 

"I  don't  see  why." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  do.  I  beg  your  pardon,  but  you  do  see, 
you  know.  To  change  the  simile — I've  only  hewn  out  the 
marble  till  I  got  a  general  outline,  in  the  mass,  of  the  figure  I'd 
like  to  see.  It  will  take  the  sculptor — the  artist — to  chip 


ioc  FOURSQUARE 

away  the  rest  with  a  thousand  delicate  strokes  and  leave  the 
perfect  form." 

"Oh,  but  you've  dreamed  the  dream!"  Her  eyes  were 
dark  with  envy. 

"  Have  I  ?  You  don't  know  what  a  great  big  thrill  it  gives 
me  to  hear  that — from  you!" 

He  smiled  at  her  but  he  met  no  answering  smile. 

"You've  dreamed  the  dream — you've  seen  the  vision. 
You've  created  a  wonderful,  wonderful  thing ' 

"Ah,  but  it's  not  created  yet.     A  dream  isn't — 

"It's  everything.  It's  the  whole  thing  really.  Making 
it  live  in  words  is  nothing — comparatively — if  you  once  have 
the  thought — the  plan — that  stirs  you.  Why — if  in  all  these 
months  I'd  had  that  great  idea  of  yours " 

"Mary,  you  forget.  It's  the  long  drudgery  that  tells. 
If  it  were  as  simple  as  that,  I'd  have  written  the  book  myself. 
It's  not  as  simple  as  that.  It's  as  difficult  and  long  as — art." 

"Oh,  but  it's  a  glorious  road  to  take,  once  you  know  the 
goal.  Who  would  mind  plodding — climbing — struggling-^ 
up  the  hill  of  work,  if  you  knew  that  was  over  the  top  ?  Not 
I!" 

"Then — write  my  book!" 

Her  startled  glance  leaped  to  his.  He  was  not  smiling 
now — his  intent  look  met  her  halfway  and  held  her. 

"Oh — h "  There  can  be  no  way  of  expressing  literally 

the  strange  little  wailing  sound  which  escaped  her  lips.  It 
was  as  if  some  starving  thing  were  suddenly  shown  food — 
through  a  glass,  darkly. 

He  was  very  gentle  with  her.  "Please  don't  be  fright- 
ened at  the  idea.  I  know  it's  sheer  presumption  of  me  to 
think  of  it " 

"Oh — h "  It  was  the  wailing  note  again.  "Oh — 

don't." 

"You  mean — you  wouldn't  want  even  to  consider  taking 


A  CHALLENGE  101 

my  outline?"  He  knew  that  wasn't  what  she  meant.  "You 
couldn't  be  absorbed  in  it — for  yourself?" 

"Absorbed!— But— I  couldn't  do  it!" 

"  Couldn't  do  it !  If  you  mean  you're  not  equal  to  it — why, 
that's  nonsense.  You  could  do  it  magnificently.  I  don't 
know  of  any  one  who  could  do  it  so  well.  Why,  Mary — the 
central  figure — Olivia — is  just — yourself!  You'd  have  only 
to — live  the  part.  Don't  you  recognize  her?  If  you  don't, 
then  I've  told  the  story  badly." 

This  brought  her  up  short.  She  considered  it  breath- 
lessly. 

"You  see?"  He  pressed  his  advantage.  "You  would 
have  only  to  live  and  breathe  the  character  of  Olivia — so 
to  speak.  Use  your  own  reactions  to  your  own  experience — 
and  then — carry  them  on  logically  to  Olivia's  conclusions. 

As  for  Broughton,  well "  And  he  paused,  watching  her 

downcast  face  with  its  rapidly  changing  expressions.  "If  I 

might  dare  to  serve  as  a  suggestion  of  him,  for  your  use 

Or  am  I  too  old — too  cut  and  dried " 

She  looked  at  him  then  and  her  lips  curved  into  a  hint  of  a 
laugh.  "You  are  Broughton"  she  said. 

"Well,  then — don't  you  see?  When  you  came  to  a  place 
where  it  might  be  difficult  to  work  out  the  psychology  of 
their  relations,  you  would  have  only  to  put  it  up  to  Mary 
Fletcher  and  John  Kirkwood,  and  let  them  take  a  day  oIF 
and  have  it  out. — I  know  this  sounds  horribly  egoistic  and 
perhaps  melodramatic — not  to  say  impossible,  and  yet — I 
have  a  strong  feeling  that  we  could  work  together  in  that  way, 
and  perhaps  produce  something  that  neither  of  us  could 
quite  do  separately." 

"You  mean — collaboration  ?"  She  suddenly  put  the  ques- 
tion as  if  it  had  just  occurred  to  her  that  he  might  want  to  see 
his  name  with  hers  upon  the  title  page  of  a  book  thus  evolved. 
He  wondered  what  else  she  could  call  a  product  the  whole 


102  FOURSQUARE 

scheme  for  which  he  was  to  furnish.  Yet  it  was  clear  that 
this  thought  gave  her  pause.  He  made  haste  to  relieve  her 
mind,  recognizing  that  he  had  touched  her  pride  and  that  he 
must  make  concession  to  it — for  the  present,  at  least. 

"If  I  might  have  a  share,"  he  said  quietly,  ''a  most  happy 
share  in  any  work  of  yours,  by  means  of  any  help  in  my  power, 
direct  or  indirect,  I  should  be  quite  content.  As  an  editor, 
you  must  know  I  have  long  been  used  to  doing  creative  work 
vicariously  through  suggestion  to  other  minds,  fitted  as  mine 
is  not  for  the  actual  coinage  of  invention.  And  you  will 
let  me  say  this:  I've  never  known  a  creative  mind  through 
which  I  should  so  like  to  make  this  vicarious  expression  of 
my  own — as  yours.  It  seems  to  me  that — if  I  may  so  put  it 
— my  mind  and  yours — articulate" 

She  sat  staring  out  at  the  river,  through  the  trees.  As  the 
afternoon  had  advanced  the  light  had  changed  and  deepened. 
Where  the  blue  waters  had  sparkled  earlier  in  the  day  there 
now  lay  long  shadows  of  indigo  and  darkest  green,  with  pur- 
ple edges  outlining  the  opposite  shore  far  across.  Hours  had 
gone  by  since  Alexandra  had  been  left  alone  with  her  books; 
Mary  had  forgotten  that  she  existed.  If  Kirkwood  remem- 
bered it  made  no  difference  to  his  plan  of  action.  Hours 
like  these  were  not  to  be  cut  short  by  any  recognition  of  social 
duties.  Let  the  duenna  wait.  As  Mary's  friend,  for  what 
else  had  she  come? 

He  sat  so  still  he  might  have  been  carved  out  of  stone, 
while  Mary  looked  away  into  space;  well  he  knew  that  she 
was  seeing  nothing  of  the  scene  before  her.  He  had  said  all 
there  was  any  use  in  saying — that  he  readily  divined.  He 
had  sown  the  seed — if  it  was  to  spring  up  at  all  he  would  not 
have  long  to  wait.  Mary  was  in  no  mood  to  deliberate.  She 
would  come  to  a  decision  soon,  he  was  sure,  for  very  inability 
to  stand  the  strain  put  upon  her  judgment  and  her  will. 
That  he  had  tempted  her  powerfully  he  knew — it  had  been 


A  CHALLENGE  103 

in  the  wail  of  her  tense  voice.  She  was  so  hungry  for  the 
renewal  of  her  ability  to  work  that  she  was  vulnerable  now 
where  once  she  would  have  been  watchful  against  any  de^ 
clared  alliance  which  threatened  her  independence,  her  ac* 
knowledged  and  outward  independence.  He  thought  she 
could  not  possibly  have  realized  quite  all  that  she  had  owed 
him  from  the  beginning,  nor  understand  that  the  new  relation 
between  them  would  be  only  a  step  further  along  the  road 
of  virtual  mental  subjection  than  the  old. 

Suddenly  a  question  from  her  surprised  him;  made  him  sit 
up  tensely. 

"Would  you  want  to  carry  out  every  detail  of  the  story — > 
just  as  you  sketched  it?" 

"You  mean — there's  something  about  it  you  don't  ap-> 
prove?" 

"I  mean — there  were  places  in  it  that  seemed  to  me  to — 
a  little — forgive  me,  please — degrade  the  whole." 

"You  don't  feel  that  they  were  logically  a  part  of  the 
whole  and  so  couldn't  be  omitted?" 

"I've  been  brought  up  to  feel,"  she  said,  steadily — more 
steadily  than  he  would  have  thought  possible  just  now — - 
"that  it's  justifiable  to  introduce  immorality  only  if  it's 
made  unlovely.  Of  course,"  she  went  on  hurriedly,  "I 
think  the  whole  conception  wonderfully  fine — otherwise  I 
shouldn't  be  attracted  by  it.  But — the  part  where  Sylvia 
and  Julian  are  together  for  so  long You  see," — she  stum- 
bled over  it — "as  you  told  it  I  got  rather  the  idea  that  you 

didn't — mind  about  it — that  you  thought  it "  Here 

she  stopped  and  the  colour  rose  in  her  face.  But  her  eyes 
met  his  frankly. 

He  gave  her  back  the  look  with  a  frankness  apparently  as 
great  as  her  own,  though  inside  he  was  laughing  a  little,  and 
saying  to  himself — "You  beautiful  little  Puritan! — And  I 
love  you  for  it,  too ! " 


104  FOURSQUARE 

"I  feel,"  he  said,  as  gravely  as  though  he  felt  grave  about 
it,  "that  it  isn't  always  necessary  for  the  true  artist  to  de- 
pict only  the  phases  of  life  which  have  the  approval  of  the 
Ten  Commandments.  If  he  can  give  a  faithful  picture  of  the 
other  side,  if  only  to  prove  that  he  sees  there  is  another  side, 
and  is  not  blind  to  it,  it  seems  to  me  worth  while.  If  your 
reader  thinks  you  never  dare  to  picture  vice,  will  your  por- 
traiture of  virtue  be  unfailingly  convincing?  And  in  my 
scheme  for  this  book — don't  you  think  the  fine  relation 
between  Olivia,  and  Broughlon  will  be  more  than  a  foil  for  the 
questionable  one  between  the  other  two?  Will  the  reader 
need  to  have  a  'Look  on  this  picture,  then  on  that!'  to  point 
the  moral  for  him?" 

She  considered  it,  her  brows  drawn  together. 

"It  all  depends,  I  think,"  she  said,  "on  the  way  it  is  done." 

"Of  course  it  does!  And  in  putting  it  into  your  hands  I 
should  know  you'd  handle  such  a  situation  as  the  one  we're 
discussing  with  just  those  fine  shades  of  discrimination  which 
would  redeem  it  from  sordidness " 

"I  shouldn't  want  to  redeem  it  from  sordidness,"  she  said 
quickly.  "It  is  sordid;  it  should  be  made  to  seem  so. 
That's  precisely  my  point.  As  you  told  that  part  of  the 
story  you — unconsciously,  of  course — made  it — poetry.  I 
don't  think  that's — fair!  I  shouldn't  be  willing  to  do  it." 

He  saw  that  on  this  point  he  couldn't  confuse  her  with 
words — that  he  must  make  the  concession;  that  in  spite  of 
her  longing  to  attempt  this  new  and  fascinating  task  her  con- 
science— that  conscience  which  he  knew  must  have  received 
its  training  from  a  father  and  mother  whose  life-work  had 
been  the  looking  after  the  minds  and  morals  of  the  young — 
must  be  satisfied  at  the  very  start  that  it  should  never  have 
to  impeach  her  for  her  methods. 

"Mary,"  he  said — and  the  expression  on  his  face  lent  sin- 
cerity to  his  words — "we  shall  never  quarrel  over  your 


A  CHALLENGE  105 

i 
resolution  to  keep  your  work  up  to  the  standards  you  have 

set  for  yourself.  I  should  be  the  last  man  in  the  world  to 
want  you  to  descend  a  step  from  the  plane  where  you  are  now. 
If  you'll  write  this  book,  you  shall  do  it  in  your  own  way. 
I'll  be  satisfied  if  you'll  let  a  logical  realism  be  its  basis — a 
logical  realism,  I  say,  mind  you.  You  need  poetize  nothing 
that  should  be  told  in  unblinking  prose — if  you'll  just  be 
willing" — and  he  looked  keenly  at  her — "not  to  idealize 
when  truth  and  real  art  demand  that  you  draw  no  veils  over 
that  which  should  be  told.  As  for  the  poetry — you  can't 
help  putting  that  in — and  not  for  anything  would  I  have  you 
leave  it  out.  Now — will  you  trust  me? — And  will  you " 

He  left  the  direct  question  unconcluded,  except  as  his 
eagerness  for  the  answer  was  in  the  inflection  with  which  he 
began  to  ask  it. 

Mary  rose  to  her  feet  and  stood  looking  off  again  at  the 
blue  and  purple  shadows,  while  Kirkwood  watched  her.  She 
did  not  look  like  the  Mary  who  had  come  with  him  to  this 
spot,  her  appearance  had  so  changed  and  lifted  with  her  re- 
lief from  her  lonely  search  for  light.  Her  eyes  were  the  eyes 
of  one  who  vividly  perceives  a  means  of  escape  from  threaten- 
ing disaster.  When  she  turned  to  him  at  length  he  found 
himself  wanting  to  put  both  arms  around  her,  as  if  she  had 
been  a  child  who  was  showing  both  her  need  of  him  and  her 
faith  in  him.  There  is  nothing  that  can  so  move  a  man  to 
tenderness  as  that. 

"I  think,"  she  said,  "I  must  say  yes.  I  feel  like  one  who 
has  come  up  against  a  stone  wall,  with  the  tide  rushing  in  be- 
hind, and  no  way  through  the  wall. — And  then  suddenly  you 
have  shown  me  a  way  through — just  one  way.  I  must  take 
it — or  be  swallowed  up." 

"Is  it  really  like  that  to  you?"  he  said,  very  gently.  He 
took  her  outstretched  hand  and  held  it  close.  "Just  a  way 
through  a  wall  ?  Well,  then — I  want  you  to  believe  that  on 


106  FOURSQUARE 

the  other  side  of  the  wall  lies  that  glorious  road  you  spoke 
of  a  while  back,  and  that  I  can  walk  along  it  with  you." 

A  sudden  light  of  mischief  touched  Mary's  lips.  "Ah, 
who's  poetizing  now?"  she  suggested.  "Nobody  knows 
better  than  you  that  the  road  will  be  the  hardest — the  rock- 
iest— I  ever  tried — if  I  can  even  walk  on  it  at  all." 

"You  can — and  find  the  way  smoothing  out  under  your 
feet." 

They  went  back  to  Miss  Warren  at  last,  their  sense  of 
guilt  at  their  long  desertion  growing  as  they  approached. 
But  to  their  relief  they  found  a  cheerful  lady  just  emerging 
from  the  old  mansion,  through  which  a  proud  and  pleased 
caretaker  had  lingeringly  shown  her,  both  apparently  quite 
content. 

"And  now,"  said  Kirkwood,  blithely,  as  he  led  his  com- 
panions back  to  the  car,  "we'll  have  no  more  of  solitude. 
I've  a  little  programme  for  the  evening  which  looks  pretty 
good  to  me — I  hope  it  will  to  you." 

He  took  them  to  a  wayside  inn  overlooking  the  river  where 
they  dined  upon  attractive  food  and  rested  in  comfortable 
chairs  upon  a  sheltered  balcony  until  dusk  and  evening  fell. 
At  a  moment  when  Kirkwood  had  left  them  Mary  held  a 
brief  dialogue  with  her  friend. 

"It's  all  right,  Sandy.  Don't  you  see  the  difference  in 
me?" 

Alexandra,  thus  invited,  scanned  the  face  before  her 
closely,  while  Mary  smiled  back  at  her. 

"I  see  you  still  on  tension,  dear.  I  hope  it's  with  a  differ- 
ence." 

"All  the  difference  in  the  world.  There  was  no  use  being 
on  tension  before.  There  is  now.  I've  got — something  big 
to  do." 

"I'm  very  glad — if  you  are." 

"Oh,  I  am.     It's  growing  on  me.     I'm  thrilled  with  it — 


A  CHALLENGE  107 

and  a  little  frightened — but  not  much.  Anyhow,  it's  a 
different  sort  of  fright — like  dreading  to  plunge  off  into  cold 
water.  But,  if  you  can  swim — it's  only  the  plunge  you're 
dreading — not  being  drowned." 

Her  friend  might  make  what  she  could  of  this  analogy,  for 
Kirkwood  was  with  them  again.  Things  moved  swiftly  after 
that.  They  were  in  the  car  again,  flying  up  the  highway  in 
the  summer  darkness  lighted  by  a  thousand  lights.  Then 
they  were  on  the  ferry,  crossing  a  dusky  river,  with  more 
lights  all  about  reflected  in  the  water,  and  the  cooling  breeze 
in  their  faces.  Then  the  road  again,  in  a  procession  of  cars, 
and  a  long  string  of  approaching  headlights  facing  them. 
And  at  the  end  of  the  road  their  own  car  turned  smoothly 
in  between  massive  gateposts,  lighted  fantastically  with 
great  parti-coloured  globes  and  hung  with  flowery  garlands. 

Kirkwood  explained.  "It's  a  big  countryside  festival — 
an  annual  affair  given  by  the  Ainsboroughs.  Everybody  is 
asked;  there  are  no  personal  invitations  sent  out,  except  to 
close  friends.  There's  everything  doing  all  over  the  estate, 
and  no  rules,  except  that  there  must  be  no  disorder.  The 
society  people  think  it  a  great  lark — join  in  the  entertaining, 
and  seem  to  have  the  time  of  their  lives  performing  in  all 
sorts  of  shows  for  the  crowd.  There'll  be  a  circus,  for  one 
thing — it'll  be  worth  seeing,  judging  by  last  year." 

"Do  you  know  the  Ainsboroughs?"  Mary  asked,  a  little 
dubiously,  Kirkwood  thought.  He  hastened  to  reassure  her. 

"I  know  two  or  three  of  them — the  younger  son  pretty 
well.  He  writes  a  bit,  and  likes  to  hang  around  my  office 
when  the  mood  takes  him.  Nice  chap.  He  first  brought 
me  up  here  two  years  ago.  It's  rather  a  fascinating  carnival, 
take  it  on  all  sides.  The  music  and  the  people  are  worth 
coming  for,  anyhow.  I  thought,  after  our  serious  after- 
noon and  decorous  dinner,  you  might  enjoy  letting  out  a 
little." 


108  FOURSQUARE 

"  I'm  sure  we  should — if  you  think  such  clothes  as  these 
we're  wearing  will  do." 

"Oh,  there's  no  dressing  for  this.  You'll  find  your  hosti 
in  sports  clothes,  and  only  a  few  aspiring  neighbours  of  the 
newly  rich  type  wearing  evening  things.  There'll  be  dancing 

in  a  pavilion — with  a  gorgeous  orchestra "  He  gave 

Mary  Fletcher  a  laughing,  penetrating  glance.  "Have  you 
danced — once — in  your  college  town?" 

"Yes,"  said  Mary — and  smiled.  "Once.  Or  twice.  I 
forget  which.  I  mean  on  two  separate  occasions." 

"With  the  college  faculty?" 

She  laughed  outright,  as  a  memory  came  to  her.  "Some 
of  it.  It  dances — demurely." 

"I'll  wager  it  does.  Well,  a  turn  or  two  on  the  Ainsbor- 
ough  floor  won't  hurt  you." 

"I  didn't  know  you  danced." 

"How  should  you? — knowing  me  only  in  an  editorial  ca- 
pacity. To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  pretty  well  behind  the  times 
till  an  obliging  girl  at  a  place  where  I  spent  part  of  my  vaca- 
tion took  me  in  hand.  I  assure  you  I  know  all  the  latest 
steps — up  to  a  fortnight  ago." 

Mary's  eyes  were  sparkling.  Alexandra  Warren's  wert 
like  a  girl's  for  interest.  The  scene  they  were  approaching 
beckoned  alluringly.  The  whole  area  enclosing  the  im- 
mense stretch  of  lawn  lying  immediately  before  the  imposing 
house  was  given  over  to  the  various  tents,  stages,  and  smaller 
stands  which  at  country  fairs  contain  the  various  forms  of 
entertainment;  only  in  the  present  instance  the  performers, 
"  barkers,"  food  dispensers,  and  the  rest  were  people  of  an- 
other class  than  those  to  be  found  in  country  fairs.  Long 
strings  of  vari-coloured  electric  lamps  made  all  as  light  as  day; 
an  expensive  orchestra  alternated  with  an  amateur  band  in 
furnishing  real  music  and  an  amusing  imitation  of  the  blare 
and  boom  of  the  rustic  performers  of  remote  regions.  Every- 


A  CHALLENGE  109 

where  were  light  and  colour  and  gay  sounds,  shot  through 
with  laughter. 

"Oh,  this  is  a  joy!"  Mary  exclaimed  as  an  hour  after  their 
arrival  the  three  came  out  of  a  great  striped  red-and-white 
marquee  in  which  they  had  been  watching  several  note- 
worthy people  of  much  social  distinction  produce  a  bit  of 
vaudeville  not  unworthy  the  professional  stage.  "I  don't 
know  when  I've  been  so  amused  and  charmed." 

"That's  partly  because  it  really  was  a  clever  little  show, 
and  still  more  because  it's  so  long  since  you've  seen  anything 
to  satisfy  the  need  of  being  amused  and  charmed,"  Kirkwood 
declared.  "One  reason  why  your  imagination's  gone  stale 
— as  you've  said  it  has — is  because  you  haven't  had  any- 
thing sparkling  and  scintillating  to  stimulate  it. — But  I 
didn't  mean  to  lecture  any  more.  Come — what  do  you  say 
to  a  dance  in  that  orange-and-gold  pavilion?  The  music's 
enough  to  pull  your  feet  over  there  in  spite  of  yourself,  isn't 
it?" 

It  seemed  to  Mary  Fletcher  that  never  in  her  life  had  she 
so  wanted  to  dance!  It  took  but  a  minute  to  find  a  pleasant 
spot  in  a  sort  of  improvised  balcony  for  the  sitters-out  and  to 
establish  Miss  Warren  there.  Kirkwood  had  suddenly  re- 
membered to  ask  her,  and  even  to  urge  her,  against  her  smil- 
ing refusal,  to  give  him  the  first  dance.  Released  from  all 
obligation  he  turned  away  with  Mary,  himself  keener  for 
the  coming  hour  than  it  seemed  to  him  he  had  ever  been  for 
any  similar  experience.  To  dance  with  Mary  Fletcher — he 
didn't  quite  know  what  that  was  going  to  be.  And  yet  he 
really  hadn't  much  doubt  that  it  might  be  a  little  better  than 
a  first  reading  of  her  best  work! 

After  the  first  ten  steps  he  had  no  doubt  whatever.  Where 
had  she  learned  it?  he  wondered.  Himself  a  late  pupil  of  a 
most  accomplished  young  person,  as  he  had  frankly  con- 
fessed— a  most  fascinating  young  person  also,  as  he  had  not 


i  io  FOURSQUARE 

confessed — he  yet  found  the  author  an  artist  in  another  line 
altogether. 

"You're  a  wonder!"  he  murmured,  with  undisguised  ap- 
proval. His  glance  rested  upon  her  with  new  absorption. 
"My  word — I  never  knew  anything  quite  equal  to  dancing 
with  you.  How  does  it  happen?  And  how  thankful  I  am 
for  my  late  grooming.  Otherwise  I  should  have  been  step- 
ping like  a  fatherly  hippopotamus  before  your  little  feet — 
very  likely  stepping  on  them!" 

"You  dance  beautifully,"  Mary  assured  him.  Now  in- 
deed she  was  a  new  creature.  As  if  it  had  been  a  wine  which 
had  gone  to  her  head,  the  music  was  setting  every  pulse  on 
fire.  All  in  five  circlings  of  the  pavilion  floor  she  had  be- 
come a  creature  so  radiant  it  seemed  impossible  that  she  could 
have  been  a  partner  in  the  sober  discussions  of  the  afternoon. 
Kirkwood  looked  down  upon  her  and  marvelled.  Was  it 
possible  that  he  didn't  even  yet  know  Mary  Fletcher  as  she 
really  was  ? 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  he  asked  again.  "Not  in  edi- 
tor's offices,  nor  in  city  libraries — nor  in  canteens  in  France." 

"That's  exactly  where  I  did  get  it — in  France.  For  months 
I  was  team-mate  with  a  young  French  girl  who  was  detailed 
to  take  me  about  the  camps  and  canteens.  She  was  a  pro- 
fessional dancer,  and  she  used  to  dance  with  and  for  the  boys 
wherever  we  went.  Naturally  I  learned  a  little  from  her." 

"  I  should  say  you  did.  .  .  .  Here  we  go  again — Ah,  this 
is  a  waltz.  I  always  liked  waltzes.  They  were  more  popu- 
lar in  my  early  dancing  days  than  they  are  now.  .  .  . 
Come,  Mary — my  dear " 

He  was  a  trifle  intoxicated  himself,  as  bearing  her  away 
with  him  he  caught  Mary's  low  laugh.  It  was  curious,  he 
told  himself,  that  such  a  hardened  old  fellow  could  be  as 
exhilarated  as  any  college  boy  with  the  sense  of  a  lovely  girl 
in  his  arms  and  the  united  rhythm  of  their  swaying  steps. 


A  CHALLENGE  in 

For  that  was  what  Mary  seemed  now,  in  spite  of  her  years 
and  honours — merely  a  lovely  girl.  And  yet  she  had  become, 
since  morning,  an  actual  and  able  partner  of  his  in  a  serious 
and  difficult  enterprise,  to  which  she  was  to  lend  herself, 
mind  and  soul,  for  at  least  the  coming  year.  He  had  reason 
indeed  for  his  headiness! 

"I'm  a  lucky  dog,"  said  Mr.  John  Kirkwood  to  himself, 
as  he  skilfully  guided  this  partner  of  his  through  the  ever- 
increasing  difficulties  of  a  floor  becoming  more  and  more 
crowded.  "And  it's  up  to  me  to  clinch  things  while  the  iron 
is  hot — and  the  music's  in  our  blood." 

He  led  her  away,  when  the  waltz  was  over,  and  down  a 
dimly  lighted  path  through  the  shrubbery,  already  discovered 
by  several  other  promenading  couples.  But  he  took  care 
not  to  get  beyond  the  magic  of  those  inebriating  violins. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  when  they  had  walked  in  silence  for  a 
minute  or  two,  "when  will  you  come  back  to  town  ?" 

She  looked  up  in  surprise.  "Why,  when  my  year  with 
Aunt  Sara  is  up." 

"Do  you  think  you  can  write  that  book — away  from  me ?" 

"You — you  could  come  up  and  see  me,  now  and  then — 
couldn't  you?"  Her  voice  sounded  a  trifle  abstracted.  He 
thought  perhaps  her  perceptions  were  still  back  there  with  the 
violins. 

"Once  in  several  weeks,  perhaps — not  oftener.  Would 
that  be  enough  ?  Think — of  the  plot  of  it — of  the  rush  of  it. 
Could  you  get  into  the  spirit  of  it  all,  walking  alone  along 
your  country  roads — in  November?" 

"I  shall  have  to  try."  Evidently  she  was  disturbed.  In 
the  light  of  a  great  rose-and-blue  Japanese  lantern  they 
were  passing,  her  face  showed  sober  again.  He  hated  to 
take  the  light  out  of  it,  and  yet  he  felt  that  if  he  could  ever 
convince  her  that  she  must  come  back  to  be  at  her  best,  his 
chance  was  now. 


H2  FOURSQUARE 

"Remember,"  he  bade  her,  "how  you  have  struggled  and 
worked  in  vain,  up  there  in  the  country.  The  atmosphere 
there — for  you — isn't  the  atmosphere  you  need.  Do  you 
venture  to  go  back  into  it  and  stay  ?  The  psychology  of  it — 
the  influence — the  suggestion — they're  all,  just  now,  for  you, 
of  failure.  Here,  in  the  Big  Town,  they'll  be  all  of  success 
again.  It's  worth  taking  into  account,  isn't  it  ? — Let  me  look 
you  up  another  apartment,  persuade  Miss  Warren  to  return 
with  you,  go  back  and  let  your  nice  little  aunt  give  a  farewell 
party  for  you,  and  then  be  settled  in  here  for  work  by  the 
first  of  October.  Six  months  in  the  country  is  enough.  Six 
months  in  the  city  will  see  you  with  the  book  half  done. — 
Come — tell  me  I'm  right.  You  know  I  am! " 

Mary  tried  to  say  she  wouldn't  do  it — she  really  tried. 
But  the  words  wouldn't  come.  A  sob  rose  in  her  throat — the 
violins  were  throbbing  in  a  most  seductive  air — there  was  a 
hint  of  a  cry  in  them,  too.  She  had  been  through  so  much, 
during  all  these  weeks  and  months,  was  so  tired  of  the  long, 
barren  effort.  This  whole  day  had  been  such  a  contrast  to 
all  that — the  warmth,  the  kindness  of  it — the  friendly 
strength  offered  her  to  lean  upon  when  she  felt  so  weak.  John 
Kirkwood's  plan  for  her  was  a  wonderful  one,  his  scheme  for 
work  one  to  grip  her  from  first  to  last.  But  to  carry  it  out — 
wasn't  he  right? — that  she  must  come  back  to  town,  where 
she  could  see  him,  consult  with  him,  as  often  as  she  needed 
him.  And  wasn't — and  perhaps  this  was  the  most  compelling 
thought  of  all — wasn't  it  due  him  that  if  she  accepted  from 
him  this  great  gift  of  an  idea,  with  no  conditions  attached, 
she  should  do  the  task  in  his  way,  let  him  advise  and  suggest 
all  through,  as  he  could  do  only  if  she  were  close  at  hand  ? 

"Please  say  you  will,"  said  Kirkwood's  persuasive  voice 
in  her  ear.  "  Say  you  will,  even  if  you  can't  wholly  see  it. 
I  promise  you,  you  shan't  regret  it." 

So  Mary  promised — with  a  queer  little  sinking  of  the  heart 


A  CHALLENGE  113 

she  couldn't  wholly  account  for.  But  Kirkwood,  after  his 
first  joyful  outbreak — "You  little  trump — now  I  promise 
you  more!  I  promise  you,  you  shall  win!" — left  her  no  time 
for  reconsideration  or  regret,  but  took  her  back  to  the  pavil- 
ion. Here,  with  the  first  strains  of  the  most  alluring  dance 
music  of  that  season,  he  quite  literally  swept  her  off  her  feet. 
For  him  it  was  indeed  a  dance  of  triumph. 

Back  at  their  hotel,  hours  later,  Alexandra  and  Mary 
found  a  slip  under  their  door  announcing  the  arrival  of  a 
special  delivery  letter  for  Miss  Fletcher  at  the  office  below. 
At  Mary's  order  it  was  sent  up.  It  bore  the  Newcomb  post- 
mark, but  the  handwriting  was  one  Mary  didn't  recall.  With 
some  anxiety  she  opened  it,  to  find  within  a  few  lines  only, 
above  a  familiar  name.  Somehow  the  very  sight  of  that 
name  seemed  strange  to  her,  here,  at  the  close  of  the  day  she 
had  just  passed. 

DEAR  MARY  FLETCHER: 

I  understand  that  your  ship  has  reached  port  for  repairs,  and  I 
am  hoping  they  may  be  effective  in  putting  her  into  perfect  condition 
for  many  successful  voyages.  But  somehow,  though  I  can't  con- 
ceive being  needed  just  now,  I  can't  help  standing  by,  as  I  told  you 
I  should,  just  outside  the  harbour. 

Yours,  as  ever, 

MARK  FENN. 

As  she  read  the  words,  in  a  clear,  rather  small  hand  full  of 
character,  the  strange  little  sinking  of  the  heart  came  back 
most  unexpectedly.  And  presently  it  became  a  well-defined 
ache  in  the  throat.  But  the  origin  of  the  ache  seemed  to  have 
nothing  to  do  with  the  writer  of  this  rather  singular  message. 
It  was  connected  more  closely  with  the  image  of  Miss  Sara 
Graham.  Mary  could  see  her  quite  plainly  as  she  would  look 
when  she  was  told  that  the  year  of  Mary's  stay  with  her  had 
ended  with  six  months! 


CHAPTER  VII 
FORKS  AND  SPOONS 


ARK,  it's  the  first  of  September.  D« 
you  know  what  that  means?" 

Harriet  Fenn  spoke  across  the 
breakfast  table.  Her  tone  was  so  de- 
cidedly that  of  one  making  an  import- 
ant announcement  that  Mark  looked 
up  for  an  instant  from  scanning  the 
morning  headlines. 

"Is  it  a  crisis  of  some  sort?"  he 
inquired,  without  deep  interest. 

"It  certainly  is.  It's  the  day  we 
always  begin  the  fall  housecleaning." 

A  smothered  ejaculation  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  remonstrance.  "  It  doesn't 
have  to  begin  to-day.  Besides,  it's 
too  hot." 

"It  has  to  begin  to-day,"  declared 
Harriet  firmly.  "Do  you  realize  that 
high  school  opens  on  the  eighth  this 
year?  That  gives  me  all  too  little 
time,  at  best.  And  as  I  can't  get  a 
woman  to  help  me,  and  as  we  couldn't 
afford  to  have  one  for  a  week  at  three 
dollars  a  day  anyway,  I'll  have  to  de- 
pend on  you.  I'm  going  to  begin  in 
your  study.  Every  book  has  to  come 
off  those  shelves " 


FORKS  AND  SPOONS  115 

"That's  not  necessary.  We  took  them  all  down  last 
year." 

"We  didn't  take  them  down  last  year.  You  acted  like 
such  a  bear  about  it  I  agreed  to  letting  them  go  with  a  dusting 
shelf  by  shelf.  This  year  those  shelves  have  got  to  be  cleaned 
properly,  if  I  do  it  alone.  The  room  smells  musty,  and  it's 
because  those  books  need  airing." 

Mark  groaned.  But  it  was  easy  enough  to  see  that  there 
was  no  way  out  for  him.  When  Harriet  laid  down  the  law 
after  this  fashion  it  was  small  use  for  a  mere  man  to  rebel. 
The  next  hour,  therefore,  found  him  coatless  and  collarless, 
wearing  a  pair  of  old  trousers,  his  shirt  sleeves  rolled  up, 
carrying  rows  upon  rows  of  books  out  upon  the  front  porch. 
He  had  been  instructed  with  care  in  the  technique  of  the  oper- 
ation, which  was  to  seize  each  book  by  the  covers  and  vigor- 
ously open  and  close  it  several  times  in  succession.  It 
had  then  to  be  polished  off  with  a  dustcloth.  The  worst  of  it 
was,  to  Mark's  thinking,  that  even  then  the  cleansing  process 
wasn't  considered  by  Harriet  complete,  for  the  dustcloth  had 
tt>  come  into  use  a  second  time,  when  the  book  was  set  upon 
the  shelves,  lest  its  stay  upon  the  porch  had  caused  it  to  ac- 
quire a  fresh  coating. 

"  If  that's  not  a  work  of  supererogation,  I  never  saw  one," 
the  labourer  declared,  somewhat  testily,  when  Harriet,  hav- 
ing caught  him  dusting  at  one  swoop  as  many  of  the  volumes 
as  he  could  hold  in  one  hand,  expostulated  vigorously.  "If 
they've  got  to  get  it  again  individually  when  they  go  in, 
what's  the  use  of  fussing  about  'em  one  by  one  out  here  ?" 

"Because  even  so  they're  not  thoroughly  clean.  You 
don't  want  your  study  to  smell  like  an  antique  shop,  do  you  ?" 

"I  like  that  booky  smell  myself,"  Mark  announced.  Never- 
theless, he  returned  to  Harriet's  methods — at  least  while  her 
eye  was  upon  him.  He  worked  industriously  enough,  for 
the  most  part,  though  now  and  then  a  book  whose  contents 


ii6  FOURSQUARE 

were  unfamiliar  caught  his  eye,  and  he  sneaked  a  page  or 
two  of  reading,  his  ear  upon  the  sounds  within. 

He  spent  a  busy  week.  Nothing  short  of  perfection  would 
suit  Harriet,  whose  housekeeping  methods  were  as  thorough 
as  those  of  her  teaching.  Toward  its  close,  having  sent  her 
brother  to  the  attic  with  a  bundle  of  goods  and  waiting  in 
vain  for  him  to  return,  she  followed  after.  She  found  Mark 
sitting  on  an  ancient  footstool,  before  a  box  of  yellowing  let- 
ters, completely  absorbed  in  their  contents.  The  words  of 
hurried  recall  died  upon  her  lips  as  he  looked  up,  for  his  face 
was  full  of  eagerness. 

"I've  found  a  bundle  of  Father's  letters  I've  never  seen 
before,"  he  said.  "They're  perfectly  great.  I  never  realized 
quite  so  thoroughly  what  a  clear,  crisp  style  he  had.  Why, 
instead  of  sounding  like  a  letter  from  one  of  the  old  fellows  it 
might  be  any  live  young  instructor  in  love  with  his  job — if 
such  an  anomaly  could  be  found.  Listen  to  this " 

He  would  have  read  on  and  on,  after  that  first  one,  if  Har- 
riet, her  energies  mastering  her  emotions,  had  not  recalled 
him  to  his  task. 

"Bring  them  down,  my  dear,  and  stow  them  in  your  fire- 
place cupboard.  Some  evening  we'll  read  them  together. 
But  just  now — when  I'm  hustling  to  get  through " 

"All  right.    What's  the  next  job  ?" 

"Beating  the  rugs.  They're  all  on  the  back  porch.  When 
they're  done,  I'll  let  you  off." 

"Heaven  be  praised!"  And  Mark  followed  his  sister's 
blue-gingham  skirts  down  the  narrow  stairs  with  the  sensa- 
tions of  a  small  boy  about  to  be  let  out  for  a  holiday,  after 
one  more  row  of  hoeing  across  a  stony  field. 

He  was  staggering  back  to  the  house,  an  hour  or  more  later, 
under  a  heavy  burden  of  cleaned  rugs  and  bits  of  carpet,  when 
a  blithe,  unexpected  voice  hailed  him. 

"Nothing  I've  seen  in  a  year  does  me  so  much  good  as  this. 


FORKS  AND  SPOONS  117 

Professor  Mark  Fenn,  without  his  collar,  and  his  hair  in 
frightful  disorder !  I  know  it's  unkind  of  me  but  I'm  so  glad 
to  have  my  friend  meet  you  this  way  first . " 

It  was  wicked  of  Mary  Fletcher,  but  she  hadn't  been  able 
to  resist  the  temptation.  Herself  in  the  trimmest  order,  to 
the  tight  little  dotted  veil  which  held  every  hair  in  place  under 
her  smart  small  hat,  she  was  laughing  across  a  gay  border  of 
scarlet  and  orange  zinnias  at  the  figure  presented  by  Miss 
Graham's  neighbour.  Beside  her  stood  Alexandra  Warren, 
equally  trim,  also  smiling,  though  with  a  polite  reserve  of 
decided  contrast  to  Mary's  frank  delight. 

The  bale  of  rugs  went  down  with  a  slump,  and  Mark's 
grimy  hand  thrust  back  heavy  locks  from  a  damp  forehead, 
as  he  stood  still  to  look,  then  came  forward  without  too 
evident  reluctance. 

"It  certainly  is  unkind,"  he  agreed  heartily,  "and  I  know 
of  no  way  to  punish  you  adequately — except  by  insisting  on 
shaking  hands  with  you." 

Mary  put  out  a  determined  hand,  from  which  he  drew  back. 

"Shake!"  she  commanded. 

"Never." 

"Then  let  me  present  you  to  Miss  Warren.  She's  been 
seeing  you  in  her  mind's  eye  as  a  stern,  scholastic  figure  hewn 
from  granite.  This  is  going  to  give  that  preconceived  im- 
pression an  awful  blow." 

"I  hope  so.  I  can  conceive  of  no  situation  likely  to  ac- 
complish that  end  more  thoroughly." 

"Mark!"  cried  a  voice  from  the  rear  of  the  house. 

"That's  Harriet.     Call  her  out,  please!"  demanded  Mary. 

"With  pleasure — "  and  Mark's  own  eyes  sparkled.  Here 
was  revenge  on  Harriet  for  this  week  of  slave-driving. 

But  even  in  her  working  garb  Harriet  presented  a  picture  of 
well-ordered  efficiency.  Her  blue  gingham  was  not  disreput- 
ably unclean,  for  it  had  been  covered  by  a  big  apron  which 


u8  FOURSQUARE 

she  hurriedly  untied  as  she  saw  her  fate,  dropping  it  upon  the 
porch.  Also  she  drew  working  gloves  from  her  firm,  strong 
hands  and  let  them  fall  upon  the  apron.  Her  cheeks  were 
pink,  her  eyes  bright,  her  welcoming  smile  unembarrassed. 
The  daughter  of  David  Matthew  Fenn  was  seldom  shaken 
from  her  poise;  it  wasn't  in  her  code  to  show  distress  over 
such  a  simple  matter  as  being  caught  at  work  by  a  stranger. 

Alexandra  Warren  had  not  often  been  more  interested  in 
any  pair  of  people  than  she  frankly  confessed  herself  to  be  at 
once  in  this  brother  and  sister. 

"Why,"  she  said  to  Mary,  some  time  later  in  the  day, 
when  the  two  were  alone  together,  "they  struck  me  as  the 
most  genuine  people  I've  seen  in  a  year.  It  really  was  dread- 
ful of  you  to  make  them  meet  us  just  then,  but  they  didn't 
even  wince — visibly.  I  liked  their  faces — even  with  a  streak 
of  dirt  across  the  Professor's  chin." 

"He  hadn't  shaved  this  morning,  either,"  Mary  exulted. 
''His  face  was  blue  as  well  as  dirty.  Oh,  I  know  I'm  horrid 
to  want  to  take  him  down,  but  if  you  knew  how  superior  he 
can  be " 

"I  fancy  he  is  superior." 

"He  certainly  is.  But  I  don't  like  to  have  him  make  me 
feel  it.  Of  course" — Mary  recalled  one  or  two  things  at  this 
point  which  forced  her  in  justice  to  alter  her  tone — "of 
course  he  can  be  very  kind — and  he  has  been.  But — there 
are  moments  when  he  lacks  fascination." 

Alexandra  laughed.  "Fascination!"  she  repeated.  "I 
should  hope  he  did.  I  particularly  dislike  the  word  in 
connection  with  any  real  man." 

"You'd  rather  have  him  blunt  and  disagreeable.  I  suppose." 

"  Decidedly  rather,  now  and  then,  at  least." 

"I  hope  you'll  have  the  opportunity  to  catch  him  being 
both/*  Mary  declared,  "though  he'll  probably  be  on  his 
guard  with  you.  In  one  short  week  there  won't  be  much 


FORKS  AND  SPOONS  119 

chance  for  either  of  you  to  get  to  know  the  other  as  I  know 
you  both.  But  we'll  do  our  best  to  bring  it  about." 

She  fulfilled  her  promise.  In  various  ways  during  that  week 
she  managed  to  throw  Mark  Fenn  and  Alexandra  Warren 
together.  For  her  guest  she  planned  a  luncheon,  a  lawn 
party,  and  a  dinner,  and  as  the  people  whom  she  invited  to 
these  affairs  promptly  responded  with  invitations  in  return, 
the  time  was  crowded  full.  Miss  Graham  was  kept  so  busy 
helping  Mary  play  hostess  that  she  hadn't  time  to  sit  down 
and  realize  her  own  severe  disappointment  over  her  niece's 
decision  to  return  to  the  city  by  the  first  of  October. 

By  the  end  of  the  week  Alexandra  was  feeling  thoroughly 
at  home  in  the  atmosphere  of  the  college  town,  where  she  had 
reciprocated  warmly  every  effort  made  for  her  entertainment 
She  had  met  the  Fenns  at  several  of  the  affairs  arranged  for 
her  and  her  acquaintance  with  them  had  progressed  far  more 
rapidly  than  had  Mary's  own — at  least,  so  Mary  herself 
assured  her. 

"You've  seen  more  of  them  in  this  week  than  I  have  in  any 
month  since  I  came,"  Mary  asserted,  as  tihe  two  were  dressing 
in  adjoining  rooms  for  a  small  dinner  which  Harriet  was  giv- 
ing in  honour  of  them  both.  "I  never  knew  them  to  bloom 
out  into  such  festivity.  I  don't  believe  Harriet  has  given  a 
formal  dinner  before  in  all  the  days  of  her  life." 

"She  isn't  giving  one  now,"  Alexandra  protested.  "She 
said  distinctly  that  she  wasn't  capable  of  any  formal  enter- 
taining. She  wanted  us  to  come  over  for  dinner  to-night. 
That's  quite  different." 

"Not  a  bit  different;  it's  only  her  provincial  way  of  putting 
it.  As  a  matter  of  fact  they  never  have  dinner  at  night, 
they  call  it  supper.  Oh,  no,  you're  quite  mistaken — Harriet 
means  it  for  the  real  thing.  I  shouldn't  be  surprised  if  she 
has  as  big  a  party  as  she  can  get  into  her  small  dining-room." 

"  But  even  so — you're  not  going  to  wear  that,  are  you,  my 


120  FOURSQUARE 

dear  ? "  Alexandra  was  looking  in  astonishment  at  her  friend, 
who  at  the  moment  appeared  in  her  doorway  with  a  fluff 
of  rose-and-amber  tulle  descending  over  her  head  to  settle 
lightly  upon  her  bare  shoulders  and  but  slightly  to  conceal 
them. 

"Why  not?" 

"Why — if  the  occasion  is  as  informal  as  Miss  Fenn  gave 
me  to  understand,  you'll  be  all  alone  in  a  frock  like  that.  By 
the  way — I  don't  seem  to  know  that  frock!  Did  you  bring 
it  from  Paris?" 

"  Bought  it  in  New  York  last  week,  when  you  weren't  look- 
ing. I've  been  dying  to  wear  it  ever  since.  Isn't  it  a  dream  ? " 

"It's  lovely,  of  course.  But  at  none  of  these  parties 
this  week  have  I  seen  anything  so  very  decolletee.  Are  you 
sure " 

"Oh,  I'm  simply  wild  to  do  something  out  of  the  common," 
Mary  declared,  with  a  mischievous  glance,  as  she  continued  to 
adjust  the  details  of  her  attire.  "I've  worn  all  my  demurest 
things,  like  the  rest  of  you,  all  the  week.  Even  at  Aunt 
Sara's  own  dinner  I  put  on  dull  feathers,  like  a  pigeon,  to 
match  you.  To-night  I  want  to  make  people  sit  up.  The 
very  incongruity  of  appearing  in  the  little  brown  house  in  a 
frivolous  frock  like  this  is  what  fascinates  me!  Don't  you 
see?" 

"I'm  afraid  you'll  disconcert  your  hostess." 

But  Mary  only  laughed,  and  coming  through  into  the 
guest's  room  pirouetted  about  it,  humming  a  gay  strain. 

"Oh,  how  I'd  like  to  be  going  to  a  dance,  instead!"  she 
cried.  "What — the  gray  crepe  again?  It's  a  dear  and 
becomes  you,  but  I  wish  it  were  cut  a  trifle  lower!  Your 
neck's  so  lovely,  it's  a  pity  to  show  only  a  sample  of  it,  like 
that." 

"A  whole  circle  of  it,  front  and  back,  is  quite  enough,  to 
my  way  of  thinking,"  said  Alexandra  decidedly.  "And  I 


FORKS  AND  SPOONS  121 

want  you  to  know  that  this  gown  was  made  very  specially 
for  me,  by  a  dressmaker  whom  even  you  must  respect — only 
I've  forgotten  her  name  at  the  moment " 

"It  was  so  long  ago?"  Mary  suggested  wickedly.  "For- 
give me — it's  beautifully  smart,  and  you  are  perfect  in  it, 
with  your  splendid  hair  done  that  way.  I've  been  so  proud 
of  you  all  the  week.  Only  I  should  like,  just  for  to-night,  a 
stunning  thin  black  of  some  sort,  with  a  smashing  flame- 
coloured  fan " 

"Since  I  don't  own  a  stunning  thin  black,  at  present,  nor 
a  flame-coloured  fan — which  would  be  horrible  with  my  red 
hair " 

"Your  hair  isn't  red;  it's  a  wonderful  dark  auburn,  as  you 
very  well  know.  And  you're  absolutely  all  right — so  long  as 
you  don't  frown  on  my  French  frock  and  my  shoulders.  To 
tell  the  truth,  I  want  to  startle  Mark  and  Harriet — they  need 
it.  Besides" —  and  here  Mary  paused,  to  proceed  after  a 
minute  with  deliberate  play  for  effect — "besides — I  won't 
say  I'm  not  a  bit  jealous!  You've  been  so  astonishingly 
successful,  all  the  week,  in  keeping  everybody  interested  in 
you,  I've  had  to  retire  to  the  background.  Now,  being 
intensely  egoistic,  I  don't  like  the  background  a  bit,  and  I 
don't  intend  to  stay  in  it.  So  behold — Enter  Mary,  centre 
stage^  in  evening  dress.  She  comes  down  to  front  while  Alex- 
andra slowly  retires  to  left  back. — Oh,  you  dear!" — Mary 
left  off,  laughing,  to  hug  her  friend —  "You  know  I  don't 
mean  it.  As  I  said  before,  I've  been  prouder  than  Punch 
of  you.  You're  so  distinguished-looking  beside  all  the 
frumpy  college  people " 

"Mary!  Take  it  back!  It's  they  who  look  distinguished 
— so  much  so,  some  of  them,  that  it  doesn't  matter  at  all 
what  they  wear.  Besides,  many  of  them  do  wear  very  charm- 
ing clothes.  The  wife  of  the  President " 

"  She  doesn't  wear  charming  clothes,  Sandy— ye'i'rp  crazy!" 


122  FOURSQUARE 

"Very  well,  then — she  doesn't  need  to.  That  fine  Intel' 
lectual  face  is  at  its  best  above  just  those  plain,  dark 
gowns." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "I  do  believe  you've  fallen  in  love 
with  this  old  town — and  everybody  in  it." 

"I  admit  it,"  declared  Alexandra  promptly. 

Over  in  the  brown  house  Harriet  Fenn  had  been  working 
hard  and  fast  to  complete  her  preparations.  An  hour  before 
the  guests  were  expected  she  called  Mark  to  inspect  her  table. 
He  had  been  down  in  the  cellar  turning  the  handle  of  an  ice- 
cream freezer,  the  last  of  many  duties  which  had  been  his  this 
day.  The  Fenns  were  among  the  people  who  do  things  for 
themselves  on  all  occasions,  for  lack  of  means  to  hire  them 
done.  Harriet's  dinner  was  of  her  own  construction;  though 
by  no  means  elaborate  it  had  cost  her  two  days  of  ceaseless 
energy. 

"How  do  you  think  it  looks?"  she  questioned,  with  some 
anxiety. 

"Mighty  well."  Mark's  eye  roved  over  the  narrow,  old- 
fashioned  table,  lengthened  to  its  limit.  "It  looks  like  every 
other  dressed-up  table,  to  me.  I  suppose  that's  what  you 
want." 

"Of  course  it  is,  though  I'm  afraid  I  can't  quite  achieve  it, 
with  our  things.  Would  you  notice  where  the  tablecloth  is 
pieced  ?  I  made  it  come  right  where  you  carve,  so  the  tray- 
cloth  would  cover  most  of  it." 

"Never'd  see  it  in  the  world." 

"We  haven't  a  dozen  of  anything.  But  I  will  not  borrow, 
though  Miss  Graham  offered  me  anything  she  has.  Her 
silver's  so  beautiful  I  really  was  tempted — but " 

"I'm  glad  you  didn't  take  it,"  Mark  declared  with  some 
sternness.  "If  we  can't  entertain  on  our  own  stuff  we  won't 
do  it  at  all." 

"That's  my  feeling  about  it — though  when  it  came  to  find- 


FORKS  AND  SPOONS  123 

ing  enough  plates  for  four  courses  I  was  hard  put  to  it. 
Never  mind — the  company  will  make  up  for  the  china. 
We've  never  had  President  Wing  before,  but  I'm  not  a  bit 
afraid  of  him,  nor  of  sensible,  kind  Mrs.  Wing,  though  it's 
the  women  who  will  see  every  little  makeshift. — And  of 
course  Mary  and  Miss  Warren " 

"Let  'em  see.  As  for  Mary  and  Miss  Warren Oh,  see 

here,  Harry — I  wouldn't  have  expected  you  to  get  nervous 
at  the  last  minute,  this  way.  The  table  looks  like  the  ban- 
quet table  of  the  gods  to  me.  If  any  of  the  goddesses  don't 
like  sitting  in  chairs  that  don't  match  they  can  summon 
their  attendants  and  go  back  home." 

Harriet's  anxious  expression  relaxed.  "That  sounds  just 
like  Father,"  she  said.  "He  never  would  let  us  fuss  about 
appearances.  And  I  do  know  it's  a  good  dinner  I've  pre- 
pared, which  is  the  most  important  thing.  Run  along  and 
dress,  Marky.  I'm  going  to  put  Miss  Warren  on  your  left. 
Of  course  Mrs.  Wing  must  sit  on  your  right — and  you're  not 
to  forget  to  give  her  half  your  attention." 

"Yes,  ma'am"  promised  her  brother,  with  a  meekness  be- 
lied by  the  gleam  in  his  eye.  "And  where  are  you  putting 
Mary — if  I  may  ask?" 

"As  far  away  from  you  as  I  can  place  her,"  replied  Harriet, 
firmly.  "You  and  she  don't  get  on  at  all,  lately,  and  I'll 
not  have  you  striking  sparks  all  through  this  dinner." 

Mark  frowned.  "As  she's  leaving  day  after  to-morrow, 
you  needn't  labour  too  hard  to  keep  us  apart.  See  here," — 
and  he  turned  back  to  make  a  journey  round  the  long  table, 
Harriet  following  protestingly  at  his  elbow — "I'm  going  to 
shift  things  a  bit."  He  picked  up  the  plain  little  place  card 
which  designated  Mary  Fletcher's  assignment.  "She  can 
change  with  Mrs.  Somers,  and  come  up  next  Hamilton. 
Then  my  end  of  the  table  will  be  livelier  and  yours  more 
dignified." 


I24  FOURSQUARE 

"Mark!  That  throws  everything  out!  I  want  Mary 
next  President  Wing,  she  amuses  him  so." 

"Let  him  amuse  himself  with  Mrs.  Somers.  He  doesn't 
know  the  faculty  wives  any  too  well." 

Harriet  couldn't  do  anything  with  him  and  was  obliged 
to  let  his  changes  stand.  When  Mark  asserted  himself  it  was 
useless  to  oppose  him.  He  went  off  to  dress  with  a  parting 
command  to  her  not  to  bother  her  head  about  anything,  be- 
cause things  were  in  train  for  a  successful  evening — and 
should  he  wear  a  white  tie  or  a  black  one  ? 

"Black,  of  course — with  your  dinner  jacket,"  she  reminded 
him.  "You  never  remember!  That  poor  coat — the  silk's 
beginning  to  wear  through." 

"Let  it  wear.  When  it's  done  I'll  take  to  tails  for  all 
occasions,  like  Somers.  It's  wild  extravagance  of  me  to  have 
two  dress  coats,  anyhow,  if  one  is  descended  from  Father. 
Dear  old  Dad — remember  how  excited  we  were  when  he  got 
it  first — and  how  impressive  he  looked  in  it?" 

"Yes."  Harriet's  anxious  expression  turned  to  a  tender 
one.  "But  the  tails  are  much  too  short  for  you  now — and 
that's  why  I'm  thankful  the  other  coat  fills  so  many  places. 
Be  sure  to  get  the  right  collar,  dear!" 

"I'll  try.  But — it's  easy  to  'mix  them  childern  up!'" 
And  Mark  departed  in  leaps  up  the  short,  steep  staircase  to 
the  small  room  which  had  been  his  since  boyhood.  He  was 
feeling  a  peculiar  excitement  himself  at  thought  of  enter- 
taining under  his  own  unimposing  roof  the  decidedly  impos- 
ing group  of  guests  whom  Harriet  had  selected.  Among 
them  was  one  in  particular,  lately  added  to  the  college  faculty, 
of  whom  they  were  all  exceedingly  proud — a  tall,  lanky, 
plain-faced  Englishman,  an  Oxford  man,  a  gentleman  and  a 
scholar,  whose  name  added  lustre  to  their  lists,  and  whose 
actual  presence,  in  the  college  or  out  of  it,  gave  enjoyment. 
In  moving  Mary's  place  card  Fenn  had  had  in  mind  not 


FORKS  AND  SPOONS  125 

i 

only  his  own  pleasure,  but  the  advantage  of  having  Mary 
meet  this  bright  particular  star  of  the  college  firmament. 
Professor  Chilton  had  but  this  day  returned  to  the  town  from 
his  English  home  to  begin  his  second  year  at  Newcomb;  Mark 
had  met  him  on  the  street  and  impulsively  invited  him  to  the 
dinner  without  waiting  to  consult  Harriet.  She  had  been 
both  honoured  and  a  little  fluttered  at  the  news;  it  had  cer- 
tainly not  occurred  to  her  to  place  Mary  next  this  learned 
man,  though  she  had  heard  him  spoken  of  as  a  delightful 
companion.  As  she  reviewed  the  order  of  her  guests  once 
more,  when  she  had  dressed  and,  big  apron  tied  over  her  sim- 
ple finery,  was  attending  to  finishing  touches,  she  noted 
again  with  regret  the  arrangement  Mark  had  made. 

"With  all  her  cleverness,  Mary'll  not  fit  in  at  Professor 
Chilton's  end  of  the  table — at  all,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"Now  Mrs.  Somers  is  really  interested  in  archaeology  and 
could  talk  with  him  intelligently.  It  certainly  shows  how 
little  judgment  a  man  has  when  a  woman's  concerned — if 
she  can  entertain  him  he  doesn't  seem  to  care  much  about 
her  brains!  Yet,  of  course,  Mary  has  brains,  splendid  ones. 
.  .  .  Oh,  I'm  glad  I  don't  give  dinner  parties  every  day! 
Much  easier  to  take  a  high-school  class  through  the  hardest 
parts  of  Caesar  than  to  make  sure  everybody  has  a  good  time 
at  an  affair  like  this." 


CHAPTER  VIII 
A  PARTIAL  ECLIPSE 


ARRIET  removed  her  apron  in  haste 
and  left  the  table  standing  in  its  un- 
wonted glory,  for  she  had  caught  a 
glimpse  of  Miss  Graham  and  her  two 
guests  approaching  across  the  lawn. 
A  minute  later,  the  sight  of  Mary 
Fletcher,  in  her  mists  of  rose-and- 
amber  tulle,  made  her  soberly  gowned 
hostess  c  atch  her  breath. 

"Why — Mary!"  she  breathed. 

"Am  I  too  much  dressed  for  your 
party,  Harriet?"  laughed  Mary, 
"Aunt  Sara  and  even  Sandy  Warren 
say  I  am.  But  I  wanted  to  do  special 
honour  to  the  occasion — and  show 
you  my  prettiest  frock  besides. 
Don't  send  me  home  to  change,  will 


you 


"I  should  say  not,"  declared  a 
voice  from  the  stairs  above  them,  as 
Mark  Fenn  came  running  down.  "We 
don't  often  catch  sight  of  anything  so 
alluring." 

But  his  eye  left  her  to  dwell  upon 

the  less  striking  figure  of  Alexandra 

Warren,  whose  appearance,  none  the 

less,  left  little  to  be  desired.     The 

(90 


A  PARTIAL  ECLIPSE  127 

gray  crepe,  of  which  Mary  had  spoken  so  slightingly,  was 
really  an  exquisite  creation  and  suited  her  perfectly;  to  both 
Harriet  and  Mark  Fenn  she  seemed  faultlessly  dressed — as 
she  was — and  her  bearing  had  already  charmed  them;  all  the 
week  they  had  noted  it.  Her  pleasure  in  the  college  town 
and  in  the  acquaintances  she  had  made  had  been  so  frankly 
evident  that  it  had  won  for  her  a  welcome  as  cordial  as  it  was 
unconstrained. 

When  Harriet's  guests  had  all  assembled  in  the  none-too- 
large  "parlour"  of  the  little  brown  house,  they  elbowed  one 
another  rather  closely.  This  room  lay  across  the  hall  from 
Mark's  study,  was  seldom  used,  and  was  unquestionably  a 
stiff  and  formal  apartment.  The  one  really  good  and  un- 
questionably rare  thing  the  room  contained  was  a  piece  of 
old  Lowestoft  china  upon  the  white  chimneypiece,  among 
a  collection  of  odd  articles  neither  beautiful  nor  worthy  of 
their  high  position.  Whatever  else  were  Harriet's  capabili- 
ties— and  they  were  many — they  didn't  include  the  making 
the  most  of  her  small  resources  in  the  matter  of  home 
decoration.  Mary's  fingers  fairly  ached  to  reform  that  room, 
with  its  marble-topped  centre  table,  its  ugly  black-walnut 
chairs,  its  gilt-framed  steel  engravings. 

"I  couldn't  have  spent  six  months  in  this  house,"  she 
said  to  herself,  as  she  seemed  to  listen,  smiling  and  intelli- 
gent, to  the  remarks  of  Professor  Somers  on  the  value  of 
mathematics  as  a  discipline  for  the  unruly  mind.  "No  won- 
der people  grow  old  ungracefully  in  such  surroundings.  Just 
one  colourfully  shaded  electric  lamp  in  this  room  instead  of 
that  horror  with  the  black  marble  base  would  make  all  the 
difference." 

When  presently  the  company  went  out  to  dinner  Mary's 
quick  eye  noted  everything.  The  long,  narrow  table,  placed 
obliquely  in  the  small  dining-room  in  order  to  gain  space,  its 
oitfittings  of  ill-matched  china,  its  obvious  substitutions  in 


128  FOURSQUARE 

the  way  of  silver  and  glass — these  the  writer's  observant 
memory  stored  promptly  away.  She  looked  up  and  down  the 
row  of  faces  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  table  and  admitted  to 
herself  that  they  were  the  faces  of  educated  people,  well  bred 
and  by  no  means  uninteresting,  and  that  none  of  them  seemed 
to  be  taking  the  slightest  note  of  the  forks  they  ate  with  or 
the  glasses  they  drank  from.  That  they  were  enjoying 
Harriet's  appetizing  food  couldn't  be  doubted — Mary  was 
enjoying  it  herself.  But  the  refinements  of  table  service 
still  seemed  to  her  indispensable;  and  the  necessity  for  the 
hostess's  constant  goings  and  comings  as  she  left  her  place 
to  serve  her  guests  a  confession  of  lack  of  means  so  incongni' 
ous  with  decorous  dining  as  to  seem  ridiculous. 

Across  the  table,  however,  she  presently  found  an  interest- 
ing study  which  effectually  diverted  her  attention  from  Har- 
riet's homely  style  of  hospitality.  Alexandra  Warren,  placed 
between  Mark  Fenn  and  the  plain-faced  Englishman  from 
Oxford  University,  was  sparkling  as  Mary  had  not  quite 
known  her  friend  could  sparkle.  The  week's  vacation  had 
done  Alexandra  a  world  of  good;  her  finely  modelled  features 
were  glowing  with  health  and  vivacity  of  expression;  her  well- 
filled  mind  was  leaping  to  respond  to  the  challenge  of  the 
men  to  right  and  left  of  her,  by  whom  she  was  alternately 
engaged  in  conversation.  Very  evidently  they  both  were  de- 
riving much  pleasure  from  her  companionship,  and  Mary 
thought  she  detected  that  each  in  his  turn  released  her  to  the 
other  with  reluctance. 

"Dear  old  Sandy,  she's  having  the  time  of  her  life,"  said 
Mary  heartily  to  herself — in  the  early  stages  of  the  dinner. 
As  time  went  on,  however,  she  was  conscious  of  a  strange 
sense  of  envy  as  she  watched  her  friend's  success.  She  was 
accustomed  to  think  of  Alexandra  as  a  remarkably  fine  wo- 
man, several  years  too  old  to  be  called  young,  whose  chief 
asset  was  her  knowledge  of  books,  and  whose  chief  desire 


A  PARTIAL  ECLIPSE  129 

was  to  be  a  friend  to  Mary  herself.  That  the  well-trained 
city  librarian  could  be  a  real  attraction  to  men  of  intellect, 
except  as  she  might  aid  them  in  their  search  for  material, 
was  a  quite  new  idea.  Often  Mary  had  watched  Alexandra 
walking  among  rows  of  bookstacks,  some  well-known  literary 
man  or  scientist  at  her  elbow,  a  figure  of  competence  on  her 
own  ground,  to  be  consulted  with  deference  as  one  who  knew 
that  ground  as  a  whole  more  thoroughly  than  they.  But 
here,  at  the  dinner  tables  of  the  Newcomb  people,  Mary  had 
not  expected  her  accomplished  friend  to  make  such  a  palpable 
hit.  The  queer  thing  about  it  was  that  Mary  herself  couldn't 
seem  altogether  pleased. 

It  looked  as  if  their  sober  tastes  preferred  gray  crepe  to 
rose-and-amber  tulle!  It  was  true  that  both  Mark  Fenn  and 
Professor  Chilton  looked  across  the  table,  from  time  to  time, 
at  Mary  herself,  and  now  and  then  courteously  made  the 
talk  at  that  end  of  the  narrow  table  general.  But  the  aston- 
ishing fact  remained  that  it  was  with  Alexandra  Warren  that 
they  were  preoccupied — and  with  reason.  Mary  hadn't 
dreamed  that  Alexandra  had  it  in  her  to  be  socially  expert 
to  quite  such  a  degree. 

For  herself,  Mary  was  forced  to  make  the  most  of  Edgar 
Hamilton,  an  instructor  in  chemistry,  on  the  one  side,  and 
Professor  Somers,  the  mathematics  man,  on  the  other.  Long 
before  the  dinner  ended  she  was  mortally  weary  of  them  both. 
It  struck  her  quite  suddenly  that  Mark  Fenn,  in  his  capacity 
of  host,  was  playing  the  part  with  much  more  urbanity  than 
she  had  known  him  capable  of — and  that  she  had  never  seen 
him  look  so  little  at  loose  ends.  In  Harriet's  candlelight 
her  brother's  dinner  coat  didn't  betray  its  worn  lapels;  the 
snug  white  collar  and  well-tied  black  bow  beneath  the  sturdy 
chin  were  very  becoming;  one  could  hardly  visualize  him  as  a 
man-of-all-work,  beating  rugs!  As  for  the  Englishman — 
Mary  acknowledged  in  her  own  mind  that  he  was  a  foeman 


i3o  FOURSQUARE 

worthy  of  any  woman's  steel,  and  that  it  was  lucky  he  was 
next  Alexandra  since  she — Mary  herself — could  never  in  the 
world  have  played  up  to  such  a  combination  of  erudition^ 
modesty,  and  personality,  or  have  followed  his  kindly  lead  as, 
without  seeming  effort,  Alexandra  was  doing. 

The  last  coffee  cup  had  been  drained,  the  last  guest  had 
risen  from  the  table.  There  were  no  cigars  in  the  house;  it 
hadn't  occurred  to  Harriet  to  remind  Mark  to  provide  any. 
His  old  pipe  she  was  accustomed  to  tolerate,  but  further  than 
the  coffee  her  list  of  supplies  hadn't  gone.  Mark  himself 
thought  of  it — too  late,  and  with  the  other  men  followed  the 
women  back  to  the  front  of  the  house  recognizing  rather  rue- 
fully that  he  and  Harriet  didn't  know  how  to  do  things  ac- 
cording to  modern  ideas.  And  just  what  they  were  to  do 
with  their  guests  in  the  small  parlour  for  the  remainder  of  the 
evening  he  didn't  quite  know. 

The  question  was  unexpectedly  solved  for  him  by  the  early 
departure  of  President  and  Mrs.  Wing  and  of  several  other 
married  pairs.  It  turned  out  that  Harriet  had  hit  upon  an 
evening  devoted  to  an  important  college  business  meeting, 
and  the  guests  who  were  members  of  a  certain  committee 
took  apologetic  leave,  their  wives  departing  with  them.  This 
left  the  small  rooms  uncrowded.  Some  chance  now  for  a  bit 
of  gaiety,  Mary  reflected.  It  was  time  for  something  livelier 
than  literary  conversation. 

She  couldn't  get  away  from  Edgar  Hamilton.  He  was 
much  the  youngest  man  present,  and  he  had  been  ob- 
viously attracted  to  her  from  their  first  meeting  He  had 
followed  her  closely  and  now  cornered  her  again  in  the  little 
parlour,  eager  to  continue  the  talk  begun  at  the  dinner  table. 
Mary,  however,  soon  contrived  her  escape,  it  being  by  no 
means  her  will  to  allow  Alexandra  to  usurp  all  the  most 
desirable  attention  to  be  had  that  evening.  Where  was 
Alexandra,  anyhow? 


A  PARTIAL  ECLIPSE  131 

"This  is  such  a  tiny  room — I  think  Professor  Fenn's 
study  is  larger.  Shan't  we  go  across?"  Mary  suggested. 
"He  has  a  very  large  library — have  you  seen  it?" 

"I  haven't.  One  wouldn't  think  a  very  large  library  could 
be  got  into  a  house  of  this  size.  In  fact  I've  never  been  in 
Fenn's  house  before.  He  and  I  aren't  much  associated, 
naturally,"  explained  the  young  instructor  in  chemistry, 
rather  condescendingly. 

They  strolled  out  of  the  parlour,  into  the  narrow  hall,  and 
came  to  a  standstill  at  the  door  of  the  study. 

"Why,  Sandy  Warren!"  The  exclamation  was  only 
imaginary  and  therefore  inaudible,  but  Mary  felt  like  shout- 
ing it.  For  the  first  time  in  her  remembrance  she  was  sud- 
denly and  disconcertingly  attacked  by  actual  jealousy.  In 
her  rose-and-amber,  her  beautiful  shoulders  a  beckoning 
challenge,  her  cheeks  touched  with  enchanting  colour,  Mary 
Fletcher  stood  attended  only  by  an  undesirable,  over-devoted 
young  man  in  whom  she  had  no  interest  whatever,  and  looked 
in  upon  a  scene  which  would  have  held  any  eyes. 

In  the  demure  gray  crepe  showing  only  a  modicum  of  the 
well-modelled  neck  and  the  fair  flesh  below,  the  heavy  rich- 
hued  hair  swept  chastely  back  from  the  fine  forehead,  the 
whole  spirited  face  alight  with  interest  and  charm,  Alexandra 
was  continuing  to  hold  sway  over  the  two  men  who  had  spent 
the  dinner  hours  beside  her.  The  three  were  deep  in  a  dis- 
cussion. Piles  of  books  had  been  taken  down  from  the  loaded 
shelves  and  lay  about  upon  chairs  and  floor.  In  Alexandra's 
lap,  as  she  sat  upon  an  old-fashioned  footstool  close  by  certain 
lower  shelves  from  which  books  had  been  withdrawn,  lay  a 
big,  shabby  volume  over  which  her  head  was  bent.  And 
bending  with  hers  were  two  other  heads,  one  dark,  one  sandy, 
all  apparently  absorbed  in  the  page  before  them.  Mark  Fenn 
was  kneeling  close  beside  her,  the  better  to  see  whatever  it 
was  which  so  interested  him.  And  as  Mary  and  young 


I32  FOURSQUARE 

Hamilton  looked,  Professor  Chilton's  voice,  in  its  pleasant 
Oxonian  inflections,  said  warmly,  "You  are  right — you 
are  quite  right,  Miss  Warren.  It  was  a  point  upon  which  I 
should  have  said  there  could  be  no  doubt,  but  you  have  shown 
us  that  doubt  in  this  connection  is  not  only  reasonable,  it  is 
inescapable.  These  inscriptions  prove  nothing,  as  you  say, 
but  they  do  show  the  fallibility  of  human  judgment.  It 
is  a  most  interesting  suggestion  you  have  made — most  in- 
teresting!" 

"Good  Lord!"  Edgar  Hamilton  jerked  it  out  under  hi* 
breath.  "There's  nothing  later  than  the  Pyramids  here* 
Let's  go  back.  We  don't  know  enough  to  stay." 

But  Mary  delayed,  fascinated,  watching.  The  three  at 
the  other  side  of  the  room  seemed  entirely  unaware  of  the 
new  arrivals.  Alexandra  closed  the  book,  and  Mark  took 
it  from  her  and  replaced  it  upon  the  shelves.  His  face  had 
never  looked,  to  Mary,  so  stirred  and  eager.  He  had  thrust 
his  hand  more  than  once  through  his  thick  locks,  as  their 
slight  disorder  showed — always,  as  Mary  remembered  it, 
a  sign  of  absorption  in  whatever  he  was  considering.  And 
as  she  looked  he  broke  into  a  boyish  laugh. 

"We'll  have  to  concede,"  he  said  triumphantly  to  the 
Englishman,  plunging  his  hands  into  his  pockets  precisely  as  a 
pleased  boy  might,  "that  she  has  us  both.  I  thought  I 
knew — I  was  sure  you  knew — but — that  last  fact  she  pro- 
duced was  a  facer!  The  honours  are  with  the  lady!" 

"Unquestionably,"  agreed  Professor  Chilton,  with  his 
homely,  friendly  smile.  "And  deservedly  so.  Only  careful 
and  painstaking  research " 

Here  Alexandra  rose  to  her  feet,  with  a  gesture  of  dep- 
recation. "Please!"  she  said,  protestingly.  "It's  only  by 
the  merest  chance  that  I  came  upon  that  fact.  The  library 
has  many  letters  sent  it  with  inquiries  or  statements  from 
great  scholars.  Sometimes  the  strangest  bits  of  information 


A  PARTIAL  ECLIPSE  133 

come  into  my  hands — things  I  don't  understand  the  value  of 
at  all.  Once  in  a  while  such  a  striking  piece  of  news  of  a  late 
discovery  as  this  stays  in  my  mind — I  bring  it  forth  in  the 
company  of  such  an  expert  as  Professor  Chilton,  and" — 
her  smile  was  adorable,  and  both  men  smiled  back  at  her 
in  appreciation  of  her  candour — "then  I  produce  a  big 
effect  with  small  means — as  a  small  boy  fires  a  giant  fire- 
cracker with  a  little  match.  The  roar  overwhelms  even 
himself!" 

And  now  laughter,  and  great  friendliness,  and  a  clever 
story  or  two — it  was  the  conclusion  of  a  sympathetic  camera- 
derie  to  which  Mary  hadn't  much  clue.  Of  course  she  and 
young  Hamilton  didn't  remain  standing  in  the  doorway  look- 
ing on;  they  had  moved  into  the  room  at  Mary's  instance, 
and  were  surveying  the  bookshelves  on  the  opposite  side  of 
the  room.  Hamilton,  not  to  be  outdone  by  his  elders,  took 
down  a  book  and  read  something  out  of  it  to  Mary — she  never 
knew  what.  Altogether,  she  began  to  think  that  the  evening 
would  be  over  without  Mark  Fenn's  recognition  that  the 
person  to  whom  he  had  offered  to  be  a  friend  in  need  had 
really  been  present  at  all. 

At  last  she  found  him  with  her. 

"I  want  you  to  know,"  said  his  cordial  voice,  "how  much 
I  like — how  much  we  all  like — and  admire — your  friend. 
She's  a  remarkable  woman.  We've  been  seeing  it  ever  since 
she  came,  but  to-night  she's  fairly  amazed  us.  She  has  one 
of  the  brightest  minds  I've  come  in  contact  with  in  many  a 
day.  Why,  any  woman  who  could  keep  Chilton  interested 
for  so  long  as  she  has,  has  scored  a  triumph.  He's  always 
scrupulously  polite,  but  those  of  us  who  know  him  at  all  know 
when  he's  really  awakened  by  an  exchange  of  views  that  de- 
lights him,  and  he  certainly  has  been  that  to-night.  We're 
sorry  you're  going  so  soon." 

"I  knew  you'd  appreciate  my  friend  when  you  knew  her," 


i34  FOURSQUARE 

said  Mary,  trying  her  best  to  speak  naturally  in  spite  of  her 
displeasure  with  him.  "She's  been  in  the  library  so  many, 
many  years,  of  course  she's  absorbed  an  enormous  amount  of 
knowledge  and  can  put  idiots  like  me  to  blush.  I'm  really 
awfully  proud  of  her  and  I'm  so  glad  you  have  the  sense  to 
see  how  learned  she  is." 

"I  don't  imagine  she  thinks  herself  learned,"  Mark  an- 
swered with  a  smile.  "She  can't  be  old  enough  to  have  been 
so  very  'many,  many  years'  in  a  library  like  that  one.  Her 
education's  been  broad  rather  than  intensive,  yet  she  shows 
expert  knowledge  now  and  then  that's  quite  startling.  I'm 
afraid,"  he  added,  "we  rather  monopolized  her." 

"Oh,  not  at  all.  I  wanted  so  much  to  have  her  have  a 
good  time  up  here;  she  has  so  few  chances,  outside  of  her 
work,  to  meet  interesting  people.  It  was  a  new  experience 
for  her,  away  from  her  library,  to  talk  so  long  with  two  such 
men — I  could  see  how  she  enjoyed  it." 

Mary  had  the  grace  to  be  ashamed  of  that  speech  the  mo- 
ment it  was  spoken,  but  there  was  no  use  trying  to  amend  it. 
"Cat!"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  caught  Mark's  look  sug- 
gesting that  he  didn't  know  quite  what  to  make  of  her.  She 
said  it  again,  more  than  once,  before  the  evening  ended,  and 
it  kept  her  annoyance  from  showing  again  so  flagrantly. 
But  it  wasn't  a  happy  evening,  behave  as  well  as  she  might. 

"Let's  walk  a  little,  it's  such  a  lovely  night,"  Mary  begged 
Alexandra  as  they  left  the  house.  "Just  up  and  down  the 
garden.  I  don't  feel  like  sleep,  do  you?" 

"Not  a  bit;  I'd  love  to  walk — if  we  can,  in  these  high  heels." 

"We'll  just  stroll.  We've  been  in  that  stuffy  little  house 
so  long  we  need  it." 

"The  windows  were  all  open — I  didn't  notice  its  stuffi- 
ness," said  Alexandra.  "It's  a  dear  house — it  has  so  much 
character,  like  the  people  in  it." 

"Character!    Why,  of  all  the  ugly  rooms,  that  place  they 


A  PARTIAL  ECLIPSE  135 

call  the  parlour  is  the  ugliest.  And  the  dining-room — funny 
little  low  ceiling;  and  that  narrow  table — like  a  picnic  affair 
in  a  grove." 

As  she  spoke  Mary  caught  her  floating  draperies  on 
a  tall  stalk  in  a  garden  bed,  and  had  to  free  herself.  "I 
caught  it  twice  to-night,  on  something  on  the  splintery  old 
chair  I  sat  in  at  dinner,"  she  recalled.  "Serves  me  right,  I 
suppose,  for  wearing  a  civilized  frock  in  a  primitive  dwelling." 

Alexandra  Warren  stopped  short,  amazedly  regarding  her 
friend  in  the  September  moonlight.  "Why,  I  thought  the 
house  and  everybody  in  it  perfectly  delightful." 

"Of  course  you  did.  You  had  a  ripping  time — with  your 
archaeologist  and  your  psychologist — the  gayest  company 
in  the  world,  of  course — to  you.  But  it  was  dull  as 
ditch  water  to  me,  marooned  with  mathematics  and  chemis- 
try. I  thought  chemistry  would  be  the  death  of  me — I 
couldn't  get  away  from  him.  I  felt  like  a  baby  with  my 
bare  shoulders,  of  course — the  only  one — and  you  so  dec- 
orously charming  across  the  table.  Oh,  this  stupid  town — I 
shall  be  glad  to  get  away  from  it!" 

"I  wish  I  could  stay  in  it!  Why,  Mary — I  don't  believe 
you  half  appreciate  it  all.  Just  the  way  you  speak  about  that 

house "  Her  voice  was  low;  at  this  point  in  their  walk 

they  were  not  far  from  the  house  next  door,  the  light  from 
whose  open  windows  shone  out  upon  their  path.  "Don't 
you  realize  that  that  house  is  the  home  of  a  scholar — and  of  a 
scholar  before  him  ?  What  does  a  narrow  dining-table  mat- 
ter when  you  remember  the  rows  on  rows  of  books  on  those 
shelves  in  that  study?  They  tell  the  story  of  the  tastes  of 
the  people  who  live  there.  I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  a 
finer  collection.  Few  leather  bindings,  to  be  sure — but  price- 
less contents,  and  so  catholic  a  list  there's  not  much  worth 
having  you  can't  find  there.  And  the  portrait  of  that  splen- 
did father  giving  point  and  purpose  to  it  all.  Oh,  I  was 


i36  FOURSQUARE 

delighted  with  the  Fenns,  Mary — I  have  been,  from  the  hour 
I  met  them.  Talk  of  atmosphere — put  them  into  your  book, 
and  you'll  have  an  atmosphere  that's  as  tonic  as  mountain 
air.  It's  good — so  good — to  breathe  air  like  that.  I  shall 
be  the  better  for  it  all  the  year." 

Mary  was  silent.  It  seemed  to  her  she  hardly  knew  Alex- 
andra to-night,  she  was  so  transformed  by  what,  to  Mary  her- 
self, had  been  a  week  of  only  moderately  enjoyable  experi- 
ence, ending  with  the  least  satisfying  of  all.  The  two 
passed  slowly  along  together,  one  moody,  the  other  exalted. 

Suddenly  Mary  paused.  "There  are  your  heroes,"  she 
whispered.  "Give  them  a  good  look.  The  atmosphere  you 
like  so  much  is  thickening.  I  can  almost  smell  the  dish  water. 
Don't  you  want  to  go  in  and  help  ?" 

Against  the  ruddy  light  from  a  lamp  two  figures  were 
partially  outlined  in  the  oblong  of  a  kitchen  window.  Only 
Harriet's  energetic  shoulder  and  arm  could  be  descried,  as 
she  washed  dishes  with  despatch,  but  the  whole  of  Mark's 
head  and  body  stood  out  like  a  silhouette.  Coat  off,  apron 
on,  he  was  drying  plates  and  cups  with  an  expedition  which 
spoke  of  long  training. 

"I  should  like  to  go  in  and  help,"  Alexandra  whispered 
eagerly  back.  "There  must  be  piles  of  things.  I  suppose  it 
wouldn't  be  possible." 

"I  presume  they'd  welcome  you — in  your  gray  crepe. 
Shall  I  come  too  and  do  the  kettles?  I  haven't  so  much  on 
to  get  smudged !  But  of  course  they're  talking  us  over.  We 
should  interrupt  the  best  part  of  the  party — for  them!" 

Alexandra  Warren  turned  and  took  her  sulky,  cynical 
friend  by  those  bare  shoulders,  which  in  the  warm  September 
night  Mary  hadn't  bothered  to  cover  except  by  a  gossamer 
scarf  which  mostly  floated  to  the  gentle  breeze. 

"Mary  Fletcher,"  she  breathed,  "it's  not  like  you  to  be  so 
tnobbish. — And  let  me  tell  you — I  haven't  quite  realized 


A  PARTIAL  ECLIPSE  137 

till  to-night  what  a  mistake  you  may  be  making  in  coming 
back  down  with  me.  Don't  you  know  these  people  are 
worth  their  weight  in  gold  ?  Where  in  the  world  will  you  find 
things  better  worth  writing  about  than  right  here?" 

Mary  flung  away  from  her.  She  threw  up  one  arm  in  a 
passionate  gesture  toward  the  open,  ruddy  window. 

"Behold!"  she  cried,  under  her  breath.  "The  perfect 
hero  and  his  incomparable  sister!  No  need  to  search  further. 
Life  as  it  should  be  lived — among  the  books  and — dishes! 
How  fine  the  values — how  broad  the  understanding! — 
Oh!" — she  struck  her  hands  together  softly — "I'm  a  fool, 
of  course,  not  to  recognize  my  material  when  I  see  it.  But 
somehow — I — prefer — life  as  it  is  lived,  by  people  in  the 
thick  of  things — not  cloistered — like  this!  And  I'm  going 
back  to  it.  I'd  like  to  start  to-night." 

Alexandra  shook  her  head.  She  put  her  arm  through 
Mary's  and  gently  drew  her,  petulantly  resisting,  away  from 
all  view  of  the  Fenns'  kitchen  window. 

"Yes,  I  think  you'll  have  to  go,"  she  admitted,  presently, 
as  they  paced  on.  "But  maybe,  sometime,  you'll  want  to 
come  back.  The  tragedy  of  life  is  that  we  don't  recognize 
the  best  hours  in  it — till  they're  past." 

Mary  laughed — not  very  mirthfully.  "  Do  you  know  what 
I  think,  you  solemn  dear?  Without  at  all  realizing  it — 
you've  quite  lost  your  head  to-night.  Maybe  something 
still  more  valuable — and  vulnerable.  Which  was  it — archae- 
ology— or  psychology?" 


CHAPTER  IX 
WHITE  ANEMONES 


T  WAS  another  Mary  who  came 
downstairs  next  morning.  Simply 
dressed,  quiet  of  manner,  she  greeted 
Miss  Graham,  who  came  to  meet  her 
at  the  threshold  of  the  dining-room, 
both  hands  outstretched.  The  elder 
woman  spoke  first. 

"It's  such  a  beautiful  Sunday 
morning,  dear  —  I'm  so  glad.  I've  been 
watching  Harriet  and  Mark  pick  all 
their  white  fall  anemones;  Mark  took 
them  all  away  —  a  great  armful.  I'm 
sure  we'll  find  them  at  the  church. 
It's  like  their  thoughtfulness.  Har- 
riet has  had  them  there  every  year, 
under  the  tablet." 

One  would  hardly  have  known 
Mary  Fletcher,  Alexandra  Warren 
thought,  as  the  three  women  sat  at 
breakfast.  The  restless  mood  which 
had  been  hers  so  much  of  late  had 
given  place  to  one  so  subdued  and 
gentle  that  it  altered  the  very  expres- 
sion upon  her  face.  She  said  little, 
and  after  breakfast  disappeared  until 
church  time;  the  others  knew  where 
she  had  gone.  Five  years  ago  to-day., 
138 


WHITE  ANEMONES 

in  Italy,  had  occurred  the  fatal  accident  which  had  takeix 
away  both  father  and  mother  from  Mary's  life.  Up  in  the 
old  village  cemetery  lay  their  mortal  remains,  marked  by  a 
massive  gray  stone. 

Mary  came  in,  by  and  by;  she  had  covered  the  resting 
places  with  the  flowers  from  Miss  Graham's  garden:  asters, 
pink  and  white  and  purple.  Her  face  was  grave,  but  there 
were  no  traces  of  tears  in  her  eyes. 

"Somehow  I  can't  make  them  real,  at  all,"  she  said  to 
Alexandra  before  they  left  the  house  for  church.  The  two 
stood  together  in  the  drawing-room  before  the  portraits  of 
Dr.  and  Mrs.  Fletcher,  done  by  a  painter  of  renown.  "My 
life,  these  five  years,  has  been  crowded  so  full;  the  old  days  at 
the  school,  before  I  went  away  from  home  to  college,  seem  s<J 
far  off.  It  seems  so  much  longer  that  they've  been  gone.  1 
wish  I  could  feel  it  more — to-day." 

"Perhaps  you  will,  dear,  before  the  day  is  over.  Such  a 
father  and  mother  must  have  meant  very  much  to  you — 
more  than  you  know.  What  fine  faces — how  much  charac- 
ter and  beauty  of  living  show  in  them!" 

"Father's  is  that  of  the  leader  he  was,  isn't  it?  I  remem- 
ber how  proud  I  was  of  him,  always,  when  people  looked  at 
him,  in  any  public  place.  And  Mother — she  was  always 
looked  at  and  watched,  too,  she  was  so  beautiful.  Oh,  I 
remember  everything — everything.  It's  just  that — they 
seem  like  people  in  a  dream  I  once  dreamed  and  can't  forget. 
I  hate  it  to  be  that  way.  I  want  to  realize  them,  to-day  of 
all  days." 

Mary  turned  away,  her  face  full  of  sadness.  Alexandra 
looked  after  her,  and  thought  she  understood.  But  it  didn't 
seem  the  time  to  tell  Mary  just  what  her  understanding  was. 
She  followed  her  friend  and  put  her  arm  about  her. 

"Five  years,  at  your  age,  is  a  long  time,  Mary,"  she  said. 
"And  I  think  it  may  be  that  the  world  of  the  imagination  you 


i4o  FOURSQUARE 

live  in  so  much  makes  the  real  world  a  little  less  real  to  you 
than  it  is  to  other  people.  But — you  can't  get  away  from 
such  a  father  and  mother  as  those.  They'll  come  back  to  you 
more  clearly,  very  likely,  when  you  are  five  years  older,  than 
they  do  now." 

"I  want  them  to-day." 

"Then  you  shall  have  them.  You  may  find  them — in  the 
church.  Have  you  been  there  this  morning?" 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "I  couldn't.  I  dread  to  go  there 
now.  I  don't  know  why.  I'm  not  in  the  mood  for  church. 
I'd  rather  go  off  in  the  woods  and  fields  and  keep  the  day  that 
way.  But  Aunt  Sara  and  the  Fenns  would  think  me  lacking 
in  respect — and  of  course  I  know  I  ought  to  want  to  go. 
Don't  worry — I'll  do  the  proper  thing  and  listen  to  a  sermon 
that'll  have  nothing  for  me.  At  least,  I'll  look  as  if  I  listened. 
Doctor  Morse,  the  college  church  preacher — well,  he  never 
interests  me.  Once  in  a  while  President  Wing  preaches  and 
then  I  do  listen — because  I  can't  get  away  from  him.  But 
there  isn't  much  chance  he'll  be  there  to-day — he  seldom  is." 

They  were  on  their  way,  presently.  So  was  everyone  else 
in  the  town,  it  seemed.  So  perfect  a  September  day  had 
brought  out  large  numbers.  The  college  was  about  to  open, 
the  town  was  full  of  new  students. 

"I  think  we'd  best  hurry  a  little,"  said  Miss  Graham, 
anxiously.  "My  pew  is  usually  kept  clear  until  the  hour, 
then  it  is  filled.  To-day  there'll  be  a  large  congregation." 

As  they  went  into  the  church  Alexandra  felt  a  deep  thrill 
of  pleasure.  Not  in  a  long  time  had  she  been  in  a  church 
in  which  the  atmosphere  of  an  earlier  day  had  been  so  well  pre- 
served. The  exterior  had  already  challenged  her  respect,  but 
the  interior  roused  her  admiration.  As  she  took  her  place  in 
the  well-cushioned  square  family  pew  and  the  usher  closed 
the  door  behind  her,  she  realized  that  she  was  in  one  of  those 
distinguished  old  sanctuaries  of  which  there  are  left,  in  these 


WHITE  ANEMONES  141 

days,  all  too  few.  Nobody  had  forewarned  her.  Perhaps 
Mary  herself  didn't  quite  appreciate  the  place  in  which  the 
memories  of  her  girlhood  were  enshrined;  very  likely  it  was  to 
her  now  only  a  mausoleum. 

As  they  waited,  the  church  rapidly  filling,  Alexandra's  eye 
was  caught  by  a  mass  of  white,  just  beyond  and  above  the 
pew  in  which  she  sat.  She  turned  her  head  to  read  the  large 
silver  tablet,  below  which  sprang  upward  hundreds  of  white 
anemones  in  a  huge  jar. 


IN  MEMORY  OF 
ARTHUR  RAND  FLETCHER 

AND 

ELEANOR  GRAHAM  FLETCHER,  HIS  WIFE 
DIED,  IN  ITALY,  SEPTEMBER  FOURTEENTH,  1914 
• 

As  she  finished  scanning  again  and  again  the  few  lines, 
the  sound  of  distant  voices  broke  upon  the  stillness,  and  a 
processional  slowly  came  into  view.  Somehow  Alexandra 
hadn't  been  prepared  for  such  music  as  now  fell  upon  her  ear. 
It  was  the  college  choir  of  young  men  which  brought  to  her 
the  strains  of  " O  come,  all  ye  faithful"  and  she  recognized 
that  the  voices  were  as  well  trained  and  effective  as  those  of 
any  choir  of  her  recollection.  In  their  white  cottas  they 
made  a  dignified  company,  and  as  they  took  their  places  she 
saw  that  Mark  Fenn  was  among  them;  she  didn't  quite  know 
why  she  should  have  been  so  surprised. 

A  strong  figure  now  came  into  the  pulpit;  a  rugged,  inter- 
esting face  looked  out  upon  the  congregation.  In  Alex- 
andra's ear  Miss  Graham  whispered  discreetly:  "We  are  to 
have  President  Wing  to  preach  to-day.  We  didn't  expect 
it.  I  am  so  glad!" 

Beside  her  Mary  stirred,  clasping  her  hands  tightly  in  her 
lap.  Alexandra  felt  her  relief.  It  would  help  matters, 


i42  FOURSQUARE 

surely,  if  this  man  with  the  face  of  one  who  brings  a  message 
were  to  be  the  preacher  of  the  day. 

When  his  time  came  he  spoke,  as  simply  and  directly  as 
was  his  wont  at  all  times.  Wing  of  Newcomb  was  one  of 
those  men  who,  though  of  the  smaller  and  less  known  colleges, 
yet  makes  his  impress  upon  the  thought  of  his  generation, 
by  both  the  spoken  and  the  written  word.  It  was  as  Mary 
had  said:  when  he  spoke  one  had  to  listen.  And  to-day,  as 
he  was  apt  to  do,  he  challenged  attention  with  the  first  word 
which  fell  from  his  lips: 

"Five  years  ago  to-day  their  Maker  took  back  to  himself 
a  man  and  a  woman  whom  those  of  us  who  knew  them  can 
never  forget.  In  memory  of  them,  I  have  chosen  my  text: 
'Ye  are  our  letter ',  written  in  our  hearts,  known  and  read  of  all 
men — written  not  with  ink,  but  with  the  spirit  of  the  living  God; 
not  on  tables  of  stone,  but  on  fleshy  tables  of  the  heart* " 

Her  father  and  mother  like  people  in  a  dream  ?  How  could 
they  continue  to  be  that,  with  a  man  speaking  of  them  in 
words  so  vivid  and  so  true  that  they  brought  back  the  living 
image,  almost  as  if  it  had  been  thrown  upon  a  screen?  The 
worthy  headmaster  of  a  great  and  powerful  boy's  private 
school  is  sure  to  be  a  man  of  remarkable  personality,  but  few 
there  be  who  can  so  describe  such  personality  as  to  make  it 
live  again.  Wing  of  Newcomb  did  that  day  that  difficult 
thing,  and  the  most  exacting  of  his  listeners,  the  daughter  of 
the  man  of  whom  he  spoke,  paid  tribute  in  her  heart  to  the 
memory  and  to  him  who  made  that  memory  real.  As  she 
listened  the  deep  feeling  she  had  longed  for  came  back;  she 
heard  her  father's  voice,  saw  her  mother's  face;  it  was  true — 
they  had  lived,  and  she  was  their  child !  Her  heart  softened, 
glowed;  tears  slowly  gathered  in  her  eyes;  she  sat  with  head 
bent,  drinking  in  the  words.  She  was  glad  to  be  sorrowful — 
it  was  wholesome,  sane,  that  she  should  acknowledge  with 
every  fibre  influences  so  potent,  from  which  she  had  slipped 


WHITE  ANEMONES  143 

away.  How  far,  she  didn't  know — but  she  knew  now  that 
she  had  slipped  away.  It  was  good,  for  this  hour  at  least, 
to  come  back.  She  was  grateful  in  her  deepest  being  to  one 
who  had  brought  her  back. 

"Written  not  with  ink — not  on  tables  of  stone — but  on  the 
tables  of  the  heart.  So  their  lives  were  written.  It  is  the 
only  writing  which  endures.  Mere  worldly  fame  is  cold  be« 
side  the  glowing  warmth  of  the  memory  which  lives  in  the 
hearts  of  men,  the  life  of  splendid  influence  which  persists,  not 
only  in  another  world,  but  in  this.  So  persists  in  this  world 
they  have  left,  the  life  of  Arthur  Rand  Fletcher  and  that  of 
Eleanor  Fletcher,  his  wife.  In  honouring  their  memory  this 
day  we  still  more  truly  honour  all  high  living,  all  selfless 
service,  all  truth  and  courage,  all  noble  manhood  and  woman- 
hood, born  of  the  love  of  God." 

Mary  did  not  lift  her  head  as  these  last  ringing  words  fell 
upon  her  listening  ears.  Following  them,  subdued  opening 
notes  from  the  organ  preluded  those  of  a  voice  beginning  to 
sing  alone.  It  was  a  strong  baritone,  carefully  controlled, 
and  the  long  familiar  words  came  with  an  enunciation  so  clear 
that  every  word  seemed  to  fall  with  peculiar  emphasis  upon 
the  hushed  and  waiting  air.  The  musical  setting  for  the 
great  old  hymn  was  the  modern  and  worthy  one  of  Sir  John 
Stainer — his  Lux  Prima. 

Come,  my  soul,  thou  must  be  waking; 

Now  is  breaking 

O'er  the  earth  another  day; 

Come  to  Him  who  made  this  splendour; 

See  thou  render 

All  thy  feeble  powers  can  pay. 

Sensitive  in  every  nerve  to  emotional  appeal,  Mary  felt 
something  within  her  stir  and  struggle  for  expression.  She 
did  not  lift  her  head,  but  she  could  have  flung  out  her  arms 


144  FOURSQUARE 

toward  both  speaker  and  singer,  to  cry  aloud  to  them  her 
gratitude.     The  hymn  went  on: 

Pray  that  He  may  prosper  ever 

Each  endeavour, 

When  thy  aim  is  good  and  true, 

But  that  He  may  ever  thwart  thee 

And  convert  thee, 

When  thou  evil  would'st  pursue. 

Now  Mary  looked  up.  She  must  see  the  man  who  was 
sending  her  a  message  of  such  import — a  message  which 
following  upon  those  awakened  memories  touched  her  very 
soul.  It  was  to  her  astonishment  that  she  saw  whose  were 
the  lips  that  were  singing  the  searching  words  as  if  they  came 
from  his  own  sturdy  heart.  She  hadn't  known  that  Mark 
Fenn  could  sing  like  that.  Only  now  and  then  throughout 
the  months  that  she  had  been  in  Newcomb  had  she  gone 
reluctantly  with  Miss  Graham  to  the  white  church  on  the 
village  green.  Her  Sundays  had  been  spent  like  other  days; 
now,  suddenly,  she  was  conscious  that  she  had  been  missing 
something  she  might  have  had.  Everywhere  she  had 
searched  for  the  stimulus  she  needed — everywhere  but  here! 

Only  God's  free  gifts  abuse  not, 

Light  refuse  not, 

But  His  Spirit's  voice  obey, 

Thou  with  Him  shalt  dwell,  beholding 

Light  enfolding 

All  things  in  unclouded  day. 

If  when  the  voice  ceased  Mary  could  have  escaped  instantly 
from  the  church  she  would  have  done  so.  She  looked  long' 
ingly  at  a  door  beside  the  pulpit;  she  was  strongly  tempted  to 
fly  for  it  the  moment  the  service  concluded.  Instead,  she 
forced  back  the  choke  in  her  throat,  compelled  the  mist  be- 
fore her  eyes  to  clear,  held  up  her  head,  and  did  that  which 


WHITE  ANEMONES  145 

courtesy  commanded.  She  returned  gravely  the  subdued 
greetings  of  those  nearest;  she  put  her  hand  into  the  warm 
grasp  of  the  college  president  and  thanked  him  quietly  for  the 
words  he  had  spoken;  she  acknowledged  to  Harriet  Fenn  her 
appreciation  of  the  beauty  of  that  mass  of  white  anemones 
before  the  silver  tablet. 

But  when  she  was  free  at  last,  she  turned  to  Alexandra 
Warren.  The  church  was  almost  empty;  nobody  was  near. 

"I'm  going  to  run  away  for  a  while,"  she  said.  "Don't  be 
worried  if  I'm  not  back  for  several  hours.  Tell  Aunt  Sara  I 
don't  want  anything  kept  for  me — just  a  glass  of  milk,  per- 
haps. You  won't  mind?" 

She  lifted  eyes  in  which  were  a  strange  mingling  of  light 
and  shadow — of  depression  and  exaltation.  Alexandra  had 
seen  that  look  before  when  Mary  had  been  stirred  to  the 
depths.  She  understood  that  her  friend  was  in  the  grip  of  a 
powerful  reaction  from  the  emotion  of  the  morning's  ex- 
perience, and  that  she  wanted  nobody  to  go  through  it  with 
her — at  least  not  at  this  stage. 

"Of  course  not,  Mary  dear,"  Alexandra  assured  her.  She 
gave  Mary's  hand  a  significant  pressure,  smiled  at  her,  and 
with  a  little  push  upon  her  shoulder  indicated  that  she  was 
sending  her  wherever  she  wanted  to  go.  A  moment  after- 
ward Mary  was  through  the  door  and  out  of  sight. 

Mark  Fenn,  his  white  cotta  removed,  came  up  to  Alex- 
andra. 

"Do  you  think  the  service  was  what  she  could  have 
wished?"  was  his  first  question. 

"Oh,  it  must  have  been.  It  was  a  wonderful  service.  I 
can't  be  too  glad  I  was  here.  You  see,  I  never  knew  Doctor 
and  Mrs.  Fletcher — I  know  them  now.  How  did  it  all  come 
about  without  Mary's  or  Miss  Graham's  knowledge?" 

"  Some  of  us  who  cared  arranged  it.  That's  the  way  things 
happen,  isn't  it?" 


i46  FOURSQUARE 

"It  was  a  beautiful  thing  to  do — and  it  was  what  Man,' 
needed.  I  haven't  seen  her  so  deeply  touched  since  I've 
known  her.  So  touched  that  she's  gone  off  by  herself.  ) 
wish "  She  paused,  considering  him. 

"What  do  you  wish?     Can  I  help  you  to  it?" 

"I  wonder  if  it  may  be  you  who  can.    Professor  Fenn 

She  paused  again,  as  if  she  found  it  difficult  to  put  into  words 
the  thing  she  wanted. 

"Yes?  Don't  be  afraid  to  tell  me,  if  there's  anything  I  can 
do — for  either  you  or  Mary.  The  day's  dedicated  to  such 
service." 

"If  you,  before  she  goes  back  to-morrow,  could  somehow — 
intensify — I  don't  know  how  else  to  put  it — the  effect  of  this 
morning's  service  upon  her  mind.  .  .  .  You  know — as  I 
know — perhaps  I  know  it  better  than  you,  having  lived  with 
her  for  three  years — how — volatile — how  fleeting — the  most 
splendid  impression  may  be  upon  a  brilliant,  shifting  mind 
like  hers.  She  is  deeply  affected  to-day;  to-morrow  she  may 
— I  don't  say  have  forgotten — but  she  may  have  put  away 
from  her  every  bit  of  that  fervour  and  be  subject  to  the  old 
unrest.  I  want — so  much — to  have  her  find  some  rock  of 
belief — of  purpose — to  cling  to.  I  want  to  see  her  steadied — 
to  meet  the  hard  demands  of  life.  As  yet,  she  doesn't  seem 
to  me — quite  fit!" 

"You  fine  friend!"  The  words  were  all  but  involuntary. 
Mark  was  not  accustomed  to  let  himself  go,  especially  to 
strangers  or  to  those  with  whom  he  had  slight  acquaintance. 
But  he  himself  had  been  deeply  moved  by  the  service  just 
past,  even  by  his  own  effort  to  sing  the  words  of  the  old  hymn 
into  the  hearts  of  those  who  listened.  Never  had  he  heard 
one  woman  speak  of  another  in  such  language  as  that  in  which 
Alexandra  had  expressed  her  anxiety  for  Mary.  It  so  closely 
put  into  form  his  own  solicitude,  he  felt  that  he  had  found 
r.n  aHy. 


WHITE  ANEMONES  147 

"You're  exactly  right,"  he  went  on,  quickly.  "There  are 
great  possibilities  in  her,  but  she's  passing  through  a  crisis, 
and  we  who  are  so  deeply  interested  in  her  must  do  our  part. 
If  it's  possible  for  me  to  help  her,  I'll  be  only  too  glad  to  try 
again  to-day.  I'd  thought  there  wasn't  much  more  I  could 
do — just  now;  but  if  you  think  I  can  .  .  .  You  don't 
know  where  she's  gone?" 

"No.  But — knowing  Mary — I  think  before  many  hours 
she'll  come  back  to  this  church,  when  she's  sure  it's  empty. 
She'll  want  to  see  the  tablet  and  the  flowers  again,  before  she 
goes.  It  will  be,  I  think,  the  hour  when  a  friend  like  you  can 
come  very  close." 

"How  about  a  friend  like  you?  You  understand  her 
better  than  I.  Perhaps  it  will  be  you  who  can -" 

She  shook  her  head.  "She  will  have  me  all  the  time,  from 
now  on.  You  have  an  influence  upon  her " 

"I've  thought  I  hadn't  much." 

"But  you  have — more  than  you  know — perhaps  more  than 
she  knows.  Professor  Fenn — I'm  going  to  tell  you  something 
that — in  a  way — is  a  breach  of  confidence.  But — if  you 
know  of  it,  it  may  help  you  to  understand  her.  You  sent  her 
a  note  by  special  delivery,  week  before  last,  in  New  York  ? " 
He  nodded.  "She  showed  it  to  me,  since  we  came  here — 
having  preserved  it."  She  smiled  slightly,  and  he  caught  the 
significance  of  the  smile.  "Mary  doesn't  preserve  letters,  as 
a  rule,  unless  she  values  them.  When  I  had  read  it  she  said, 
in  that  careless  way  of  hers  she  sometimes  uses  to  cover  real 
feeling — 'It's  rather  heartening,  isn't  it? — in  a  world  one 
can't  trust  much,  to  have  a  real  man  tell  you  he's  standing  by 
— even  if  he  is  rather  a  solemn  old  duck!" 

Both  laughed,  the  phrase  was  so  typical  of  Mary's  swift 
passes  from  grave  to  gay.  "I'm  not  sure  whether  being 
called  a  real  man  offsets  the  'solemn  old  duck/  "  Mark  began. 

But  Alexandra  interrupted:  "Of  course  it  does — you  know 


i48  FOURSQUARE 

it  does.  You  and  she  have  missed  seeing  much  of  each  other 
this  week,  but  I'm  sure  to-day,  of  all  days,  a  'real  man'  can 
come  nearer  her  than  the  most  well-intentioned  woman.  I'm 
so  glad  I  had  the  chance  to  tell  you." 

So  this  was  how  it  happened  that  when,  late  in  the  after- 
noon, Mary  Fletcher  stole  into  the  still  church,  coming  in  as 
she  had  left  it  by  the  narrow  door  near  the  pulpit,  she  found 
Mark  Fenn  standing  in  front  of  the  tablet  which  bore  her 
family  name.  She  paused  abruptly  when  she  first  caught 
sight  of  him  and  waited  a  minute  in  the  doorway,  watching 
him,  as  if  in  doubt  whether  to  go  or  stay.  His  back  was 
toward  her.  His  hands  were  clasped  behind  him,  his  attitude 
was  of  one  who  has  time  at  his  disposal  and  who  may  have 
been  for  some  time  where  he  is  discovered. 

"I  don't  know  how  you  came  to  be  here,  but  I'm  very  glad 
to  find  you." 

He  wheeled,  surprised  honestly  by  her  greeting  words,  as 
well  as  by  her  silent  approach. 

"I  hoped  you'd  come,"  he  said,  frankly.  "I  came  back 
here  because  I  thought  you  might.  It's  a  beautiful  place  to 
meet  in,  isn't  it?  Our  old  church  has  a  strong  hold  on  those 
of  us  who  have  grown  up  in  it." 

"I  suppose  it's  considered  very  chaste  and  correct,  in  the 
old-style  way.  I'm  afraid  I  never  thought  much  about  it. 
To-day,  with  the  flowers  and  the  service — and  the  music — 
somehow  I  appreciated  it  more  than  I  ever  have  before." 

"Won't  you  come  in  and  sit  down?"  He  held  the  door 
of  the  Graham  pew  open  for  her,  and  she  entered  and  took  a 
place.  She  looked  up  at  the  mass  of  white  anemones  be- 
neath the  tablet  near  by. 

"It  was  wonderfully  thoughtful  of  you  and  Harriet  to  put 
those  there." 

"Harriet's  cherished  her  anemones  each  year,  to  cut  them 
Cor  this  purpose.  If  you  like  them,  that's  thanks  enough." 


WHITE  ANEMONES  149 

She  sat  in  silence  for  a  little,  looking  about  the  church,  and 
he  was  silent  also.  He  thought  he  saw  that  she  was  tired 
with  her  long  walk — he  was  sure  she  had  been  walking,  for 
her  slim  shoes  were  dusty,  and  her  cheeks  were  flushed  with  a 
touch  of  sunburn. 

"I  didn't  know  you  could  sing — as  you  did  this  morning," 
she  said,  at  length.  "Of  course  I've  seen  you  in  the  choir  the 
few  times  I've  come  to  church  this  year.  I've  been  wishing  I 
could  hear  you  sing  that  song  again.  I  want  to  remember  it." 

"I'll  gladly  sing  it  for  you — here,  if  you  like.  Will  you 
play  it  ?  It  needs  the  organ." 

They  went  down  the  aisle  to  the  organ,  set  closely  to  the 
wall  at  one  side — not  a  large  organ,  but  of  a  fair  quality. 
Mark  opened  it,  found  the  hymn,  and  turned  a  switch. 

"We're  very  proud  that  we  no  longer  have  to  hire  a  boy 
to  blow  the  bellows,"  he  said,  with  a  smile. 

UI  don't  know  much  about  organs,  but  I  presume  I  can 
manage  a  few  stops,"  and  Mary  took  her  place  upon  the 
bench.  She  proved  that  she  knew  rather  more  about  organs 
than  was  to  have  been  expected,  for  she  played  the  hymn  with 
understanding.  Mark  sat  down  upon  the  bench  beside  her 
and  sang  it  through.  Somehow  the  sound  of  his  voice 
shook  her  even  more  than  it  had  done  in  the  morning. 
With  the  last  words  she  was  trembling  from  head  to  foot  with 
nervous  tension,  and  as  her  hands  left  the  keys  she  broke  into 
silent  sobbing.  She  slipped  from  the  bench,  went  hurriedly 
down  the  aisle  to  the  old  square  pew,  dropped  upon  the 
floor  within,  burying  her  face  in  the  cushion. 

He  came  slowly  after  her,  uncertain  what  she  would  want 
of  him,  but  himself  more  touched  by  her  evident  need  of 
comfort  than  he  could  have  foreseen  himself  to  be.  Some- 
times— indeed  often — he  had  suspected  her  of  playing  a  part; 
but  he  had  no  such  suspicion  now.  With  all  her  arts  and 
graces,  he  was  sure  that  something  genuine  and  admirable 


150  FOURSQUARE 

lay  below  the  surface  charm  of  her — she  could  hardly  be  the 
daughter  of  Arthur  and  Eleanor  Fletcher  and  not  have  in- 
herited some  of  those  qualities  which  had  been  the  foun- 
dation of  a  superstructure  so  illustrious. 

Mark  entered  the  pew  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 
The  sides  of  the  pew,  after  the  manner  of  the  period  in  which 
it  was  built,  were  high;  within  it  one  felt  almost  as  if  one  were 
in  a  small  room.  He  sat  down  beside  Mary  and  laid  a 
friendly  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"I  know,"  he  said,  very  gently.  "I  think  perhaps  you 
need  to  cry  it  out.  You've  had  a  trying  day.  I  just  want 
you  to  feel  I'm  here." 

It  surprised  and  touched  him  to  have  Mary  suddenly  put  up 
her  hand  and  grasp  his.  He  held  the  hand  close  in  both  his 
own,  while  she  struggled  to  be  quiet.  Presently  she  spoke  un- 
steadily, in  a  voice  whose  inflections  still  further  moved  him: 

"Please  forgive  me.  It's  just  that — I  needed  somebody 
to  hold  on  to  for  a  little.  I'm  so  unhappy — and  so  tired. 
I've  walked  miles  on  end — I'm  so  alone — I — oh,  I  wish  you 
were  my  brother — and  I  could  behave  like  this  and  not  seem 
a  silly  fool!  I  don't  know  what  you  think  of  me — and  yet — 
I — can't  seem  to  get  hold  of  myself." 

It  was  very  near  hysteria — that  he  recognized;  but  it  had  a 
reasonable  basis  as  not  all  hysteria  has.  He  bent  over  her, 
tightening  his  grasp  of  her  hand  and  speaking  soothingly. 

"You  shall  hold  on  to  me  as  long  as  you  want  to — and  I'll 
be  a  brother,  gladly.  Why  shouldn't  I  ? — You've  known  me 
all  your  life.  You've  had  a  hard  day,  and  hearing  the  hymn 
again  was  a  little  too  much.  We'll  just  sit  here  quietly  till 
you're  rested  and  yourself  again. — By  the  way — have  you 
had  anything  to  eat  since  breakfast?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"But  that's  not  right,  you  know,  Mary.  No  wondef 
you're  exhausted." 


WHITE  ANEMONES  151 

"It  doesn't  matter.  I — I  ought  to  fast  to-day."  The 
words  came  smotheredly.  "Fast — and  pray,  maybe — for 
forgetting — my — father  and  mother!" 

She  was  crying  again.  He  tried  to  find  words  to  console 
her.  "You  haven't  forgotten,  my  dear.  Time  inevitably 
dims  sorrow,  and  much  has  happened  in  these  five  years.  But 
you  haven't  forgotten." 

"I  haven't  remembered — as  you  have.  I  know  what  your 
father's  memory  is — you — live  by  it !  His  principles  are 
yours — I — oh,  it's  different  with  me.  They — if  they  see,  and 
know — they're  sad  to-day.  I'm  not  like  them.  They  burned 
with  a  steady  light.  I'm  a — will-o'-the-wisp!" 

"You're  tired  out,  and  can  see  nothing  clearly.  I'm  going 
to  take  you  home — not  to  your  home  but  mine — and  let  Har- 
riet feed  you.  After  that,  we're  going  into  my  study  and  talk 
things  all  over.  You  go  to-morrow  and  it's  my  last  chance. 
No,  don't  refuse.  Let  me  do  this  for  you.  Come — please ! " 

She  hadn't  known  he  could  impose  his  will  upon  her  quite 
so  arbitrarily.  She  wanted  to  refuse;  the  impulse  to  chasten 
herself,  to  flagellate  her  body  as  well  as  her  spirit,  made  her 
attempt  to  resist.  But  when  his  hand  drew  her  to  her 
feet,  she  found  herself  submitting  with  a  sense  of  relief.  It 
was  good,  after  this  weary  day,  to  come  back  to  such  a  friend. 

The  early  September  dusk  was  falling  as  he  led  her  up  the 
path  to  his  own  door.  Harriet  was  sitting  upon  the  porch — • 
she  rose  to  meet  them. 

"I  ought  to  go  home  and  wash  my  face,"  Mary  murmured. 

"You  can  wash  it  here.  I'll  run  across  and  tell  them 
what  I've  done  with  you.  I  know  I'm  being  despotic,  but  I 
think  you  need  it.  We  all  do,  at  times." 

She  let  Harriet  minister  to  her  needs,  bathed  her  tear- 
stained  face  in  a  plain  white  bowl  in  a  nun-like  small  bedroom, 
and  being  conducted  to  Mark's  study  sat  down  before  a  little 
table  spread  with  a  white  napkin,  upon  which  were  presently 


152  FOURSQUARE 

set  forth  a  plate  of  sandwiches,  a  glass  of  milk  and  some  deli- 
cate cookies.  Mary  looked  at  Harriet  Fenn,  wondering  why 
she  had  never  realized  before  just  how  saint-like  a  person 
offering  food  could  appear. 

"You're  beautifully  kind,"  she  said. 

"It's  been  a  hard  day  for  you,  I  know,"  Harriet  responded 
heartily.  "I'm  glad  to  do  anything  I  can." 

By  Mark's  instructions  Harriet  left  her  alone  while  she  was 
eating,  and  Mary  relaxed  and  rested.  She  was  sitting  in 
Mark's  shabby  old  armchair,  and  there  was  even  a  sense  of 
comfort  in  that.  Only  last  evening  she  had  been  jealously 
unhappy  in  this  very  room;  now  it  was  here  that  she  was  being 
looked  after  with  a  solicitude  which  was  most  welcome. 
Somehow  the  recollection  of  that  evening  scene  made  her 
appreciate  the  room  and  its  contents  and  character  as  she  had 
never  done  before.  As  she  looked  about  her,  resting  her  head 
upon  the  worn  leather  back  of  the  chair,  she  knew  that  Alex- 
andra was  right:  the  house  was  the  habitation  of  people  of 
education,  of  dignity,  of  character.  It  didn't  matter  that  the 
rug  under  Mark's  desk  was  almost  in  holes  with  the  shuffling 
of  his  feet;  it  did  matter  that  upon  it,  resting  against  a  row  of 
books,  stood  an  illuminated  card,  evidently  placed  there  that 
the  words  upon  it  might  often  meet  the  eye.  And  suddenly 
Mary  recalled  that  the  card  had  been  there  for  a  long  time. 
The  quotation — from  Lowell — must  be  a  favourite  with  the 
worker  at  that  desk.  She  read  it — and  read  it  again. 

The  longer  on  this  earth  we  live 

And  weigh  the  various  qualities  of  men, 
The  more  we  feel  the  high,  stern-featured  beauty 

Of  plain  devotedness  to  duty; 
Steadfast  and  still,  nor  paid  with  mortal  praise, 

But  finding  amplest  recompense 
For  life's  ungarlanded  expense 

In  work  done  squarely,  and  unwasted  days. 


WHITE  ANEMONES  153 

"Rested — a  little?"  asked  Mark's   voice  as  he  came  in. 

Mary  looked  up  with  a  smile — the  smile  of  a  woman  who 
i»  grateful  to  a  man,  and  is,  for  the  moment  at  least,  frankly 
willing  to  acknowledge  that  he  has  known  better  than  she 
what  she  needed.  She  was  no  longer  hysterical;  it  would 
have  been  quite  impossible  for  her  now  to  catch  at  Mark's 
hand  and  cling  to  it.  He  had  brought  her  back  to  poise  and 
self-control. 

"Yes,  thank  you — very  much  rested,  and  quite  sane 
again.  You  must  be  tired  of  my  heroics. — Is  this  card  your 
motto?  No  wonder  you  could  sing  that  hymn  this  morning 
with  so  much  feeling!" 

"That  card  was  my  father's — he  was  very  fond  of  it. 
Great  words,  aren't  they?  'High,  stern-featured  beauty* — 
what  a  phrase  and  what  a  suggestion.  I  don't  know  of  any 
words  which  remind  me  so  vividly  of  my  father." 

"They  fit  you,  Mark." 

"Oh,  not  a  bit!  I'm  indolent,  compared  with  him.  I 
slack,  shirk,  forget,  let  down — and  then  those  lines  bring  me 
up  with  a  round  turn — as  he  would. — Well — the  hours  are 
getting  on.  Are  you  going  to  tell  me  what  I  very  much  want 
to  know?" 

"What — do  you  so  much  want  to  know?" 

"The  sort  of  book  you're  going  to  write — at  the  dictation 
of  John  Kirkwood!" 

"Why  should  you  think  I'm  going  to  write  a  book  at  any- 
body's dictation?" 

"I  put  two  and  two  together.  They  make  four — inev- 
itably. I  wish  I  could  make  five  out  of  them,  but  I  can't." 

Her  eyes  fell  from  his.  She  wanted  to  retort  with  her  old 
fire,  resenting  all  suggestion  of  disapproval  or  interference, 
but  somehow  she  couldn't.  She  didn't  want  to  quarrel  with 
him  to-day,  she  wanted  his  companionship,  his  interest,  even 
— yes,  suddenly  she  felt  that  she  wanted  his  advice.  She  was 


154  FOURSQUARE 

not  to  be  with  him  again  for  a  long  time  and  she  was  sorry. 
Perhaps  she  was  seeing  him  with  new  eyes,  since  Alexandra 
Warren  had  found  so  much  in  him.  In  any  case,  since  she 
had  come  back  for  this  concluding  week  of  her  stay  in  New- 
tomb,  she  had  realized  that  she  was  far  from  knowing  all  that 
he  was,  or  all  that  he  might  have  for  her.  Unquestionably, 
blessings  do  brighten  as  they  take  their  flight! 

She  was  silent  for  a  full  minute.  Then  she  said,  with  a 
long-drawn  breath.  "Do  you  care  to  listen  to  an  outline  of 
the  book  I'm  going  to  write?" 

"I  should  like  it,  above  all  things." 

She  began  slowly,  as  John  Kirkwood  had  begun,  to  sketch 
the  background  for  the  story.  She  found  herself  recalling 
phrases  of  his,  and  consciously  imitating  his  style  of  speaking. 
Remembering  how  he  had  by  degrees  worked  up  her  interest 
by  all  clever  means,  the  pitch  of  his  voice,  the  sudden  un- 
expected emphasis  of  a  word,  she  followed  his  methods,  as 
nearly  as  she  could.  It  was  difficult  at  first — she  felt  that  she 
wasn't  doing  it  well.  Little  by  little,  as  she  went  on,  she 
found  her  own  powers  of  verbal  recital  growing  with  use. 
True  to  her  temperament,  the  very  effort  warmed  her,  ex- 
cited her,  and  brought  about  the  state  of  absorption  in  her 
task  necessary  with  her  to  produce  effect.  Mar}-  could  do 
nothing  in  cold  blood ! 

If  Kirkwood  could  have  heard  her,  he  would  have  had  high 
hopes  for  the  success  of  his  plans.  If  he  himself,  in  putting 
them  before  her,  had  felt  it  necessary  to  use  all  the  skill  of 
which  he  was  master,  she  was  still  more  conscious  of  the  need 
she  had  to  captivate  and  convince.  In  dealing  with  Mary 
Fletcher,  Kirkwood  had  had  plastic  material  to  work  upon;  in 
the  case  of  Mark  Fenn,  Mary  knew  that  if  she  brought  him  to 
agree  with  her  that  she  had  found  a  task  worth  doing,  it 
would  be  because  she  should  show  him  clearly  that  this  was 
so — she  couldn't  possibly  fool  him  with  the  glitter  and  glam- 


WHITE  ANEMONES  155 

our  of  it.  Therefore  she  exerted  herself  to  be  clear  and 
logical,  to  make  the  most  of  what  she  felt  were  the  really  fine 
values  of  the  projected  story,  and  above  all  to  show  him  that 
though  she  might  have  to  deal  protractedly  with  phases  of 
life  which  were  in  themselves  evil,  she  should  do  it  in  such  a 
manner  as  to  leave  them  lustreless. 

As  she  neared  the  culmination  of  the  story  she  inevitably 
became  herself  an  actor  in  it,  as  Kirkwood  himself  had  done. 
She  could  no  longer  sit  quietly  in  her  chair;  she  got  up  and 
moved  about,  now  walking  up  and  down,  now  halting  before 
her  listener.  Mark  himself,  too  absorbed  to  remember  his 
manners,  sat  back  in  his  chair,  his  hands  clasped  behind  his 
head,  his  eyes  following  every  motion  and  gesture.  She  had 
become  a  creature  to  disturb  a  man's  balance  and  confound 
his  judgment.  She  stood  upon  the  hearth-rug  before  the  old 
fireplace,  a  figure  of  beauty  and  grace,  her  eyes  lighted  with 
strange  fires,  her  gestures  expressive  of  every  shade  of  mean* 
ing,  her  voice  full  of  delicate  inflections,  humorous,  pathetic, 
pleading — never  had  Mark  Fenn  listened  to  such  a  tale  told 
in  such  a  way.  Then  she  ended,  laughing  a  little,  somewhat 
shakily,  and  saying — "So  that  was  how  it  all  happened. 
Shouldn't  it  be  told,  if  I  can  tell  it — with  the  very  utmost 
skill  I  have?"  He  was  for  the  moment  quite  speechless 
with  admiration  of  her  achievement,  as  any  but  a  man  of 
stone  must  be. 

She  sank  into  the  old  leather  chair  and  laid  her  head  back, 
turning  it  away  from  Mark,  waiting  silently  for  his  verdict. 
He  remained  silent  also  and  motionless  for  a  minute  or  two, 
then  he  got  up  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down  the  room,  his 
hands  thrust  deep  into  his  pockets,  after  the  manner  of  man 
when  he  considers  a  question  of  import.  Then  he  came  to 
a  stand  before  her. 

"You're  a  marvellous  raconteuse,"  he  said,  as  one  wh<? 
offers  a  tribute  which  cannot  be  withheld. 


i56  FOURSQUARE 

She  smiled  up  at  him. 

"I  shouldn't  have  said  so  involved  and  many-threaded  a 
tale  could  be  told  so  admirably — that  you  could  have  got 
over  to  me  so  much  of  the  dramatic  action  of  it,  and  not  have 
tangled  it  up  somewhere  and  tangled  me  with  it.  It's  all 
before  me — I  see  just  what  it  is  you  plan  to  do.  It's  one  of 
the  most  extraordinary  plots  I  ever  met  with — I'm  sure  of 
that.  It  will  make — a  very  successful  book." 

"You  really  think  so?" 

"I  do — of  course  I  do.     Nobody  could  fail  to  see  that." 

Then  he  began  to  walk  again — up  and  down — up  and  down. 
She  interposed  not  a  word  to  hasten  whatever  further  he 
might  have  to  say.  That  whatever  it  was  he  found  it  difficult 
to  put  it  into  words  became  increasingly  evident.  At  last, 
however,  she  could  bear  the  delay  no  longer. 

"Oh,  don't  keep  me  in  suspense!"  she  said,  her  colour 
mounting.  "Of  course  I  know  you  don't  like  it.  I  knew  yoA 
wouldn't.  You  want  to  keep  me  writing — bread  and  butter!" 

Then  indeed  he  was  ready  to  speak.  He  drew  up  a  chair 
and  sat  down  in  it,  leaning  forward.  His  face  was  grave  and 
intent;  the  tone  in  which  he  spoke  was  low  and  reasonable. 

"Mary,"  he  began,  "whatever  we  do,  let's  not  quarrel — or 
misunderstand  each  other.  I  can't  bear  that — and  I  don't 
think  you  can.  We  should  be  the  best  friends  in  the  world; 
your  father  and  mine  were  a  David  and  Jonathan,  if  ever 
men  were.  I  wish  I  could  do  something  to  make  you  feel 
that,  whatever  I  say,  I'm  doing  my  best  to  be  honest  and  fair. 
I  want  above  all  things  to  be  of  use  to  you.  Won't  you  be- 
lieve that?" 

"It  must  be  something  pretty  bad — to  need  so  much  pre- 
facing. Of  course  I  believe  all  of  that,  Mark  Fenn.  Oh,  go 
ahead — tell  me  how  you  feel  about  it.  I  know  already.  You 
don't  care  for  the  sort  of  book  that  will  be — though  the  telling 
did  interest  you,  immensely.  You  couldn't  disguise  that." 


WHITE  ANEMONES  157 

"I  didn't  try  to  disguise  that.  It  was  absorbing — fasci- 
nating. But — tell  me  just  this,  Mary.  Answer  this  one 
question  with  absolute  sincerity,  and  we'll  let  all  others  go. 
When  you've  written  this  book,  put  into  it  every  ounce  of 
flesh  and  blood  you'll  have  to  put  into  it,  eaten  and  slept  and 
waked — and  lived — with  it,  for  a  year  or  more,  and  finally 
brought  it  to  a  finish — what  will  you  have  accomplished?" 

She  met  his  eyes  without  flinching  for  a  moment,  while 
his  searched  hers  to  the  depths.  Then  hers  fell.  "I  shall 
have  written  a  successful  novel,  I  hope,"  she  said,  with  art 
effort  to  speak  lightly.  "  It  won't  be  of  the  goody-goody  sort, 
of  course." 

"Shall  you  dedicate  it  to — the  memory  of  your  father  and 
mother?" 

"Don't  you  think  you're  rather  cruel?"  she  flashed  back 
at  him.  "Do  you  imagine  I  shall  put  into  it  a  word  that 
would  be  unworthy  of  them  ? " 

"I  think  that  if  you  kept  out  every  word  that  could  offend, 
if  you  did  every  line  of  it  with  the  ideal  before  you  of  hurting 
nobody,  the  thing  still  wouldn't  be  worth  the  doing.  Mary! 
— What  are  we  in  this  world  for?  Merely  not  to  do  harm? 
Why  not — in  a  world  full  of  pain  and  trouble  and  unrest — to 
try  to  help! — To  inspire! — With  such  talent — all  but  genius — 
as  yours — to  waste  it  with  performing  useless  tasks !  Why — 
why  don't  you  set  yourself  to  lend  all  your  amazing  art,  all 
your  powers  of  gripping  and  holding  interest,  to  saying  some- 
thing that  will  challenge  the  human  spirit  to  its  best — its  best 
— not  urge  it  to  its  worst!" 

Her  eyes  were  blazing.  "Join  the  ranks  of  the  preachers 
of  sunshine  ? — the  silly  philosophy  of  denying  that  anything's 
wrong " 

His  exclamation  stopped  her.  "You  know  I  don't  mean 
anything  like  that.  And  I'm  not  denying  the  use  of  the  book 
which  merely  amuses  and  entertains.  The  thing  I'm  trying 


i58  FOURSQUARE 

to  say  is  this: — When  any  worker  holds  in  her  hands  such 
tools  as  you  hold — shining  bright — tools  with  an  edge — it's 
her  responsibility  to  make  something  with  them  besides— 
graven  images  of  things  that  can't  be  worshipped.  There's 
a  great  multitude  of  people  who  worship  everything  you  do. 
They'll  worship  this  book — because  Mary  Fletcher  wrote  it. 
You'll  have  had  a  great  big  chance  to  carve  the  likeness  of 
God's  truth  in  such  beauty  that  they'll  want  to  worship  it. 
And  instead — you'll  only  have  set  up  a  human  temple  to  the 
lesser  gods,  with  the  devil  lurking  in  the  background.  Why, 
Mary,  as  you  told  that  story,  I  could  fairly  see  him  grinning 
out  from  between  the  pillars!  I  don't  believe  you  know — I 
can't  believe  you  know — what  it  is  John  Kirkwood  wants  you 
to  do.  .  .  .  That  plot  is  his!" 

"Alexandra  told  you!"     Mary  had  suddenly  turned  white. 

"No.  ...  As  I  told  you — I've  put  two  and  two  to- 
gether." 

She  rose.  "I  don't  believe  we'd  better  talk  about  it  any 
more — if  we're  to  part  friends." 

He  stood  looking  down  at  her.  "We  must  part  friends," 
he  said,  in  a  different  tone.  "Mary,  I've  said  all  I  wanted  to 
say.  I  had  to  say  it.  But  I  don't  want  you  to  think  of  me 
always  as  preaching  at  you.  When  you're  back  in  the  great 
city  you'll  have  little  enough  of  this  sort  of  thing.  The  in- 
fluence will  be  all  the  other  way.  Unless  you  seek  out  the 
preachers  you'll  hear  few  sermons. — You'll  continue  to  think 
of  me  as  an  old  fogy.  But — I'm  going  to  make  one  prophecy 
— and  when  you've  heard  it — forget  it  if  you  can!" 

Her  eyes  met  his;  he  seemed  to  have  obliged  her  to  look  up 
at  him.  There  was  a  force  about  him  which  she  hadn't 
recognized — she  was  compelled  to  respect  it.  She  had  never 
seen  such  a  light  of  conviction  in  his  face — the  austerity  of  it 
was  somehow  magnetic;  hurt  and  angry  as  she  was,  she  had 
ftever  been  so  drawn  to  him. 


WHITE  ANEMONES  159 

"Some  day,  Mary,"  he  said,  very  quietly,  "you'll  come 
6ack — starved — not  only  from  having  tried  to  live  on  husks 
yourself,  but  sick  at  heart  at  having  offered  them  as  food  to 
others." 

She  found  no  word  to  say  in  answer  and  turned  with  a 
little  gesture  of  futility  to  the  door.  His  own  heart  was 
heavy  within  him,  at  having  dealt  this  last  hard  blow  to  a 
spirit  already  exhausted  with  the  rigours  of  the  day.  He 
followed  her  as  she  went  across  the  hall  to  say  good-night  to 
Harriet,  then  out  into  the  warm  September  darkness.  As 
they  crossed  the  lawn  he  spoke  again  and  there  was  anxiety 
in  his  low  voice. 

"Mary,  I  can't  let  you  go  like  this.  It's  perfectly 
natural  that  you  should  be  hurt — even  offended  with  me — 
for  my  plain  speaking.  If  I  didn't  care  so  much  about  it 
all,  I'd  have  kept  silence.  I'm  quite  a  good  many  years  older 
than  you — I  wish  I  weren't.  I  don't  want  to  seem  like  a  self- 
righteous  grandfather  forcing  counsel  upon  you.  I'd  rather 
be  the  brother  you  made  me  feel  like  to-day.  Can't  I  keep 
that  feeling  ?  Won't  you  trust  me  ?  I  don't  want  you  not  to 
want  me  to  stand  by,  the  way  I  told  you  I  should.  I  want 
you — to  want  me  to. " 

He  was  no  longer  remonstrant — no  longer  austere — he  was 
simply  and  convincingly  human.  They  had  come  to  the 
white  pillars  of  the  Graham  porch. 

"Friendship,"  he  said  haltingly,  as  she  stood  with  head 
turned  away,  "means  to  me  giving  nothing  less  than  my  best. 
I've  tried  to  give  that  to  you  to-day.  If  I've  only  hurt 
you " 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him  then.  "You  have  hurt 
mer"  she  said  steadily.  "Hurt  my  pride,  anyhow,  terribly. — 
B  ut  I  can  stand  that — for  I  think,  after  all — you've  rather 
warmed  my  heart,  and  I  needed  that,  too.  You  have  stood 
by — all  day.  I  want  you  to  keep  on,  if  you  will,  no  mattei 


160  FOURSQUARE 

how  far  away  I  am.  I  may  seem  ungrateful — I'm  a  quee* 
thing  and  don't  always  know  myself  or  what  I  want.  But 
I  do  know " 

He  was  silent,  waiting. 

"I  do  know  you're  a  good  friend.  I  think  I'd  rather  have 
a  friend  than  a  brother. — I — will  you  write  to  me  now  and 
then  ?  It  won't  hurt  me  to  hear — how  you  feel  about  things." 

"I  will  write,  Mary — I  want  to  write.  You — let  me  tell 
you — you're  splendid  to  take  it  like  this.  You'll  win — I 
know  you'll  win.  You're  your  mother's  daughter — you  can't 
do  anything  but  the  straight,  fine  thing." 

"I  wish" — she  said,  her  voice  wistful — "oh,  I  wish  I  were 
sure  I  couldn't.  But — you  see — I'm  not  only  my  mother's 
daughter — I'm  myself." 


CHAPTER  X 
To  STIMULATE  IMAGINATION 


T  WAS  not  a  large  apartment — 
neither  was  it  exactly  small  as  New 
York  apartments  go.  But  its  location 
was  excellent,  and  from  its  windows 
could  be  had  a  glimpse  of  the  river — • 
just  a  glimpse,  but  priceless. 

Mary's  desk  stood  beside  one  of 
these  windows,  daylight  over  the  left 
shoulder;  typewriter  close  by  with  a 
hooded  electric  over  it.  A  small 
grand  piano  elbowed  the  desk  at  its 
right,  a  fine  musical  machine  with 
a  cabinet  full  of  choice  records  was 
tucked  into  the  opposite  corner. 

Books  were  everywhere,  overflow- 
ing the  bookcases  and  crowding  tables 
and  extra  shelves.  The  neutral  tint- 
ed walls  were  hung  chastely  with  a 
few  good  pictures — except  over  Mary's 
desk,  where  a  riot  of  framed  auto- 
graphed photographs,  small  prints, 
and  other  pictorial  treasures  sug- 
gested unwillingness  to  allow  the  se- 
verity of  decorative  canons  to  intrude 
upon  this  one  corner. 

Flowers  were  everywhere  about  the 
room.  It  was  a  warm-looking  room, 
161 


162  FOURSQUARE 

its  hangings  in  the  siennas  and  blues,  with  touches  here  and 
there  of  stronger  colour  in  the  lamp-and-sconce  shades.  Its 
chairs  and  its  big  divan  were  luxuriously  comfortable;  a  tea- 
table  near  the  chimneypiece  suggested  social  hours. 

Alexandra  Warren,  returning  from  her  library  on  a  certain 
late  afternoon  in  November,  let  herself  into  the  apartment 
with  the  caution  she  always  used  when  she  expected  to  find 
Mary  at  work.  Within  the  door  she  stood  still,  observing  the 
little  scene  which  nightly  now  for  weeks  had  met  her  eye. 

Mary  sat  before  her  typewriter,  her  fingers  flying.  A  blue 
smock  like  that  which  painters  wear  was  pulled  on  over  her 
frock;  her  dark  hair  had  loosened  a  little — it  looked  as  if  her 
fingers  had  been  run  through  it.  Her  face  was  flushed.  As 
Alexandra  stood  back  in  the  shadow,  the  clicking  of  the  keys 
ceased  abruptly.  Mary  sprang  up,  went  to  the  musical 
machine  and  started  it.  She  sat  down  upon  a  small  chair 
directly  in  front  of  it,  and  as  the  record  began  to  play  she 
placed  her  ear  close  to  it  and  remained,  leaning  forward,  her 
hands  clasped  tight  in  her  lap. 

One  might  have  thought  her  deaf!  A  flood  of  the  most 
intense  and  complicated  harmonies  poured  themselves  out 
upon  her;  apparently  a  whole  orchestra  was  playing  some- 
thing barbaric  in  its  passion  and  power,  and  the  various 
instruments  blended  in  a  whole  which  conveyed  a  sense  of 
something  mighty  happening.  Here  and  there  came  violent 
crescendoes  which  made  Alexandra,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  wince  in  sympathy  with  Mary's  ear-drums — but  Mary 
herself  seemed  only  to  draw  the  closer.  Three  times  she 
played  the  record  over,  then  silenced  the  machine  and 
appeared  actually  to  fling  herself  back  at  her  work. 

Alexandra  went  on  into  her  own  room — one  of  two  sleeping 
rooms  opening  upon  the  narrow  corridor  at  the  end  of  which 
was  the  living-and-work-room.  A  fair-sized  and  extremely 
attractive  dining-room  and  a  snug  little  kitchen,  with  a  bath- 


TO  STIMULATE  IMAGINATION  163 

room  which  Mary  called  palatial,  completed  the  scheme  of 
the  apartment.  She  was  paying  a  high  price  for  it — rents 
had  risen  enormously  since  she  and  Alexandra  had  leased 
their  first  quarters,  and  these  had  cost  them  a  third  more. 
Only  a  writer  of  independent  income,  as  Mary  was  from  both 
her  own  earnings  and  the  family  estate,  could  have  afforded  to 
set  up  a  typewriter  in  such  a  place,  or  have  kept  a  maid  to 
save  her  time  while  she  sat  at  it. 

"Shall  I  serve  dinner,  ma'am?" 

"Not  yet,  Norah.  Miss  Fletcher  is  still  writing.  If  this 
is  one  of  your  evenings  out  you  may  leave  it  in  the  heating 
oven." 

"I  can  wait  the  half  hour,  Miss  Warren.  Miss  Fletcher's 
been  writin'  the  intire  day — she'll  be  wantin'  things  tasty." 

"That's  kind  of  you,  Norah.  I  think  Miss  Fletcher  must 
be  very  tired.  But  I  don't  like  to  stop  her  when  she's  so  hard 
at  work." 

"No,  ma'am." — Norah  was  devoted  to  Mary,  who  had 
brought  her  from  Newcomb  in  the  beginning,  and  to  whom 
she  had  returned  from  other  service  when  Mary  had  come 
back  to  the  city.  "  Best  not  interfere  when  she's  makin'  it 
fly  like  that.  I'll  wait  till  eight — I've  a  good  dinner  to-night 
jmd  want  to  see  it  served." 

But  Norah  had  set  her  "tasty"  dinner  in  the  heating  oveB 
and  gone  out  with  a  friend  long  before  Mary's  typewriter 
stopped  clicking.  When  it  did,  and  its  operator  sat  back  in 
her  chair,  throwing  up  her  arms  in  a  long  stretch  to  ease  the 
aching  muscles,  then  bending  forward  once  more  to  reread 
the  last  full  page,  Alexandra  came  forward  from  an  armchair 
where  she  had  been  quietly  reading  and  waiting. 

"Done?" 

Mary  lifted  her  flushed  face.  "Done — praises  be!  The 
fourth  chapter.  My  heart — and  I'm  done  too!  I've  been 
irazy  over  it,  all  day.  It's  gone  like  mad — the  first  work  I've 


j64  FOURSQUARE 

had  go  that  way  since  we  came  home.  Oh,  but  it's  worth  all 
it  costs,  when  it  comes  with  a  rush.  That  blessed  record — 
it  did  the  trick!  I  must  hear  it  again — now!" 

"My  dear,  it's  almost  nine  o'clock — dinner's  waiting  in  the 
oven " 

But  Mary  was  at  the  machine  and  had  started  the  record. 
She  played  it  through. 

"Wonderful,  Sandy?  Oh,  but  you  haven't  an  idea  what 
it  means  to  me.  To  you  it's  merely  the  ghost  of  the  original 
performance — to  me  it  brings  it  all  back.  And  it  means — my 
fourth  chapter!  I've  written  it — on  that  music.  I've 
literally  soaked  myself  in  it,  all  day.  And  now  it's  done — 
and — it's  good — I'll  swear  it  is!  Oh — but  I'm  tired  to  the 
last  inch  of  me!" 

"Come  straight  out  to  dinner.     You  need  it  badly." 

"Need  it?  I'm  starved  as  any  workingman — or  ditch 
digger!  Tell  Norah  to  serve  it  while  I  wash  my  face." 

Alexandra  served  the  dinner  herself,  at  the  round,  prettily 
Jaid  table  with  its  bowl  of  pink  roses  in  the  centre.  Mary 
came  in  presently,  her  blue  smock  removed,  her  hairpins 
tightened,  her  eyes  a  little  bloodshot  from  the  long  strain  of 
her  day's  work.  She  was  sighing  with  weariness  as  she  took 
her  place. 

"Cut  it  up  and  put  it  in  my  mouth,"  she  begged,  lan- 
guidly. "And  don't  make  me  wait  till  dessert  for  my  coffee. 
I  want  a  big  black  cupful  of  it  now." 

"Oh,  no,  my  dear  girl!  You  can't  have  it.  You  know 
what  it  would  do  to  you." 

"That's  what  I  want  it  to  do.  John  Kirkwood's  coming 
over  to  hear  the  chapter.  He'll  be  here  at  ten." 

"Not  to-night!" 

Mary  nodded.  "To-night.  I  called  him  at  five  o'clock 
and  told  him  he  had  to  hear  it  to-night.  I  can't  sleep  till  I 
hear  him  say  it's  corking.  You  won't  mind  sitting  up  a 


TO  STIMULATE  IMAGINATION  165 

little,  will  you?  It  won't  take  more  than  an  hour.  He'll  go 
by  half  past  eleven. — And  I  must  have  the  coffee  to  brace  me 
for  the  reading." 

"Mary " 

"I  know  all  thou  would'st  say,  lady."  Mary  smiled  im- 
pudently across  the  table,  her  elbows  upon  it,  her  hands  sup- 
porting her  drooping  head.  "I  know  thy  counsel  is  wise  and 
prudent,  as  ever.  But — all  rules  have  their  exceptions. 
When  I've  written  a  chapter  like  this  one  I  simply  can't  live 
till  next  day  to  take  my  friend  the  editor  off  his  feet  with  it. 
Prithee,  bring  me  the  coffee." 

She  drank  it,  two  big  black  cups  instead  of  one,  and  as  it 
cook  hold  of  her  fatigue  and  shortly  banished  it  she  became  a 
new  creature — though  her  friend  was  by  no  means  satisfied 
with  the  transformation,  fearing  the  means.  By  the  time  John 
Kirkwood's  ring  was  heard,  Mary  was  smooth  and  fresh  in  a 
corn-coloured  silken  tunic,  and  only  the  heavy  shadows 
under  her  eyes  betrayed  the  strenuousness  of  the  effort  just 
ended. 

"The  fourth  ready?  You  are  putting  on  the  pressure," 
observed  Kirkwood,  as  he  settled  himself  in  the  big  chair 
always  reserved  for  him.  "Sure  you're  not  too  tired  to 
read  it  to  me  ?  What  if  I  should  read  it  to  you,  for  a  change  ?" 

"Oh,  no — you  wouldn't  get  my  inflections.  Besides,  there 
are  places  where  it's  badly  mangled — though  not  as  much  as 
usual.  You  mightn't  disentangle  them  easily — and  then  I 
should  go  perfectly  crazy." 

"Just  the  same,  I  want  to  try  it.  The  reader  of  the  book 
won't  get  your  inflections,  either.  Better  see  what  I  can  read 
into  it.  Come — give  me  my  way." 

He  had  his  way.  Curled  up  in  a  corner  of  the  divan  Mary 
sat  watching  his  face  as  he  turned  page  after  page  of  her 
typed  script.  He  was  a  perfect  reader,  and  as  the  chapter 
proceeded  the  listener  felt  that  it  gained  by  the  intelligence 


166  FOURSQUARE 

of  the  interpreter,  so  that  certain  phrases  fell  upon  her  ear 
with  an  emphasis  she  had  hardly  known  they  possessed.  He 
missed  nothing,  he  felt  his  way  through  her  interlineations 
with  hardly  a  slackening  of  the  steady  pace  at  which  he  read, 
and  when  he  came  to  the  climax  of  the  chapter  a  satisfied  nod 
and  smile  gave  his  verdict  before  he  spoke. 

"Good  work — excellent  work!  You're  getting  into  it 
with  a  rush,  now.  That  chapter  shows  you  have  your  scheme 
well  in  hand.  You've  done  just  what  I  wanted  to  see  you  do 
in  this — advanced  the  story  by  leaps  and  bounds,  and  still 
kept  a  close  grip  on  the  interest.  It's  sometimes  rather 
difficult  to  do  both." 

"You're  really  satisfied  with  it,  then?  I  thought  you 
weren't,  quite,  with  the  first  three.  So  I  vowed  I'd  make 
you  own  this  was  good." 

He  was  still  smiling  as  he  got  up  to  stand  upon  the  hearth- 
rug, looking  down  upon  her. 

"You  read  me,  did  you?  Well,  you're  right — I  can  tell 
you,  now  that  you're  really  off  down  the  track.  The  first 
three  chapters  showed  traces  of  your  effort  to  get  started — 
a  perfectly  natural  result  of  the  long  siege  of  the  dull  months 
in  your  country  town.  But  they  can  be  made  right — all  they 
will  need  is  a  bit  of  compressing  and  tightening,  on  your  first 
revision.  You  got  under  way  a  little  like  a  new  engine  with  a 
heavy  load — the  power  was  there  but  the  necessary  adjust- 
ments of  time  and  experience  hadn't  taken  place.  Remem- 
ber Kipling's  '.007'  ?  But  you're  getting  up  steam,  and  when 
you  have  a  clear  track  with  all  signals  set  you'll  make  a 
record  run." 

Mary  frowned  up  at  him — smiling  through  the  frown, 
however.  "I  don't  know  whether  I  want  to  be  compared 
to  an  engine.  I  don't  want  to  feel  a  heavy  load  and  have  to 
keep  on  the  track. — I  want  to  be  off  up  in  the  air  somewhere, 
free,  flying." 


TO  STIMULATE  IMAGINATION  167 

"Very  well — I  amend  my  metaphor.  But  even  in  the  air 
you'll  have  to  be  subject  to  the  laws  of  the  air — winds,  cross 
currents,  pockets,  terrific  gales.  And — I  must  remind  you 
that  airplanes  carry  engines." 

"Airplanes?     Yes — but  not  birds!" 

It  was  his  turn  to  frown.  "My  dear  Mary!  It  can't  be 
possible  you're  still  romantic  enough  to  want  to  be  a  bird 
rather  than  a  plane?  Doesn't  the  idea  of  that  whirring 
motor  fascinate  you  beyond  the  image  of  any  paltry  bird 
sailing  on  little  insufficient  wings?  For  shame!  Be  a  Spad 
or  a  De  Haviland,  if  you  like,  but  have  a  human  brain  at 
the  controls." 

She  got  up  and  came  over  to  him.  "You  really  do  like 
£he  chapter?" 

He  looked  down  at  her,  recognizing  instantly  the  writer's 
insatiate  longing  for  more  praise  with  which  to  feed  the 
fires  of  her  energy.  In  spite  of  her  weariness,  he  must 
leave  her  keen  for  more  work.  He  plunged  instantly  into 
a  detailed  recognition  of  the  success  of  the  chapter  he 
had  just  read  and  the  reasons  for  it;  took  up  its  con- 
struction, point  by  point;  said,  "This  was  a  mighty  clever 
touch" — "That  was  a  bit  of  consummate  art" — "The 
closing  scene  was  absolute,  human  realism,  convincing  to  the 
last  word."  And  so,  finally  had  Mary  Fletcher  glowing 
with  happiness  and  confidence — and  regarded  her  with  eyes 
whose  comprehending  glance  veiled  a  touch  of  scorn.  No- 
body knew  better  than  John  Kirkwood  how  to  feed  those 
fires.  He  had,  as  his  daily  task,  to  keep  so  many  of  them 
alight.  Real  genius,  he  was  saying  to  himself,  had  no  need 
of  flattery — hardly  of  recognition.  There  were  no  geniuses 
on  his  list.  He  must  make  the  most  and  the  best  of  talent — 
great  talent — and  that  Mary  Fletcher  most  assuredly  pos- 
sessed. He  could  well  afford  to  give  her  what  she  wanted. 

But  Mary,  even  while  she  flushed  gratifiedly  under  his 


168  FOURSQUARE 

praise,  was  not  entirely  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  she  had 
asked  for  it  and  had  received  full  measure  from  a  practised 
hand.  "Thank  you,"  she  said,  when  he  had  finished.  "That's 
more  than  enough — and  I  don't  deserve  it  all,  by  any  means. 
But  I  have  worked  hard,  and  I'm  still  so  doubtful  of  myself. 
I  hardly  dare  believe  I'm  doing  the  thing  as  you  feel  it  should 
be  done." 

"You  are — and,  as  I've  said,  getting  steadily  into  the  high- 
pressure  atmosphere  necessary  to  the  task.  The  great  thing 
you  need  now  is  just  a  little  more  life  and  colour  in  your  own 
life.  Let  me  supply  it.  Drop  work  entirely  for  a  day  or 
two  now  and  then;  relax,  and  go  out  with  me  in  the  evening 
a  little  oftener  than  you've  been  doing.  You  need  to  hear 
some  big  music,  I  fancy — and  see  some  perfect  dancing — and 
a  tense  play  or  two.  You've  been  depending  on  a  phono- 
graph to  stir  your  imagination,  haven't  you  ?" 

He  glanced  rather  contemptuously  toward  the  open  musi- 
cal machine.  He  knew  some  of  Mary's  devices  along  these 
lines.  She  had  frankly  told  him  of  them,  in  days  past,  and 
laughed  at  them  herself  while  she  declared  their  potency. 

So  he  had  his  way,  in  this  as  in  other  things,  and  the  next 
evening  saw  the  pair  on  their  way  to  the  theatre.  The 
perfect  dancing  was  first  on  Kirkwood's  list,  accompanied  by 
music  from  a  famous  orchestra.  Afterward  came  a  supper — 
more  dancing — and  that  night  Mary  crawled  into  her  bed  at 
an  hour  so  late  that  she  couldn't  crawl  out  again  next  morn- 
ing until  many  working  hours  had  gone  by.  In  spite  of  re- 
fusals— which  turned  into  acceptances  under  pressure — Kirk- 
wood  managed  during  the  next  fortnight  to  carry  out  a 
programme  which  supplied  much  varied,  more  or  less  highly 
seasoned  fare;  and  to  have  his  protegee  meet  a  number  of 
people  whom  he  said  she  ought  to  know,  for  the  sake  of  the 
realism  of  the  book. 

"If  you  don't  mind  my  saying  so,  you're  a  bir  of  a  country 


TO  STIMULATE  IMAGINATION  169 

mouse  yet,"  he  said  to  her  frankly,  one  evening,  on  their  way 
home  in  the  closed  car  which  was  always  at  his  service  on  such 
occasions.  "In  spite  of  your  three  years  here  in  town,  and 
your  experience  abroad,  and  all  that,  you  don't  know  life  and 
you  don't  know  people — except  of  certain  favourite  types. 
The  others  you  haven't  bothered  to  know — much  less  to 
study.  I  want  to  remedy  that.  There's  a  certain  group  of 
people  to  whom  I  haven't  introduced  you  because  I  didn't 
think  you  were  ready  for  them.  They're  quite  wonderful 
people;  you'll  find  them  highly  stimulating,  though  you  may 
not  exactly  like  them.  But  for  the  sake  of  Sylvia  and  Julian 
I  think  you'll  have  to  know  them." 

It  was  another  fortnight,  however,  before  he  brought 
about  this  meeting.  Whether  purposely  or  not  Mary  couldn't 
guess,  but  it  was  New  Year's  Eve  when  she  found  herself  en- 
tering a  locality  new  to  her.  By  this  time  she  was  thinking 
herself  familiar  with  every  type  of  life  she  could  possibly  need 
to  observe,  for  Kirkwood's  acquaintance  seemed  enormous, 
and  his  power  to  give  her  fresh  situations  to  study  without 
limit.  On  this  evening  she  discovered  that  he  had  been  sav- 
ing one  of  the  most  interesting  groups  of  his  familiars  for  the 
hour  when  it  should  make  upon  her  the  most  arresting  im- 
pression. 

On  the  way  down  the  editor's  talk  had  been  so  diverting 
that  Mary  hadn't  observed  just  where  she  was.  When  their 
car  swung  into  a  small  court  and  came  to  a  standstill  before 
what  looked  to  be  a  two-storied  Italian  villa,  she  stared  about 
her  in  amazement.  They  were  far  down  town  in  the  great 
city,  with  high  buildings  circling  them  round.  Yet  before 
them  stood  a  group  of  charming  small  residences,  their  win- 
dows and  the  sidelights  of  their  doors  rosy  with  radiance; 
wreaths  of  holly  in  the  windows,  plump  evergreen  trees  rising 
beside  the  entrances. 

"Made  over  from  the  old  stables  of  the  rich  of  former 


i7o  FOURSQUARE 

days,"  explained  Kirkwood's  voice  in  her  ear.  "Haven't 
you  heard  of  them?  Little  jewels  they  are.  Architects 
have  outdone  themselves  to  create  this  Italian  atmosphere. 
If  there's  one  place  in  the  city  you  ought  to  live  in,  it's  right 
here." 

Mary's  facile  imagination  had  already  taken  fire.  "Oh, 
I'd  give  anything  to  live  here!"  she  cried,  under  her  breath. 
"I  suppose — it's  very  difficult  to  manage  it." 

He  nodded.     "You  have  to  know  your  way  in." 

"And  frightfully  expensive?" 

"That  follows,  of  course.  You'll  see  some  delightful 
furnishings  in  here.  As  for  the  artistic  values — they're 
priceless,  to  those  who  understand  them." 

He  lifted  the  heavy  brass  knocker;  the  door  was  instantly 
opened  and  he  led  her  in.  Accustomed  though  she  had 
been  all  her  life  to  more  or  less  luxury  of  living,  used  to  being 
entertained  in  homes  of  wealth,  and  having  known  the  best 
there  was  in  the  world  of  education  and  culture,  she  now 
found  herself  in  a  new  atmosphere  of  sophistication  for  which 
former  adventures  into  Bohemia  had  by  no  means  prepared 
her.  In  some  of  the  haunts  to  which  Kirkwood  had  taken 
her  she  had  met  characters  most  eccentric;  she  had  learned 
to  estimate  no  man's  genius  by  the  length  of  his  hair  or  the 
sombreness  of  his  eyes.  She  had  listened  to  speech  of  all 
sorts,  from  the  harshest  of  gutturals  to  the  softest  of  difficult 
sibilants,  from  the  lips  of  those  fresh  from  other  shores  and 
struggling  to  conquer  the  English  tongue.  She  had  been 
interested,  intrigued,  charmed,  and  shocked,  beyond  all 
previous  experience.  Through  it  all  Kirkwood  had  urged 
her  to  miss  nothing. 

"Some  of  it's  great  and  some  beneath  contempt,"  he  had 
warned  her.  "Take  care  not  to  get  your  values  mixed — and 
most  of  all  not  to  prejudge.  One  can't  leap  at  an  estimate 
of  these  people  you've  been  meeting  these  last  weeks. 


TO  STIMULATE  IMAGINATION  171 

You'll  find  all  the  signposts  you're  familiar  with  changed 
around — as  the  boys  change  them  at  Hallowe'en.  Learn  to 
reserve  your  judgment  as  completely  as  you  can.  The 
types  aren't  simple — as  they  are  in  Newcomb — or  even  as 
you  found  them  in  your  army " 

"They  weren't  always  simple  there,"  she  objected. 

But  he  went  on  dogmatically.  "They're  complex,  often 
beyond  analysis.  The  most  interesting  of  all  will  baffle 
you — absorb  you — and  teach  you — as  no  school  or  college 
may." 

He  murmured  something  of  the  same  sort  again  as  the 
door  closed  behind  them  and  a  man  and  woman  came  for- 
ward together  from  a  room  beyond  the  small  hallway  where 
the  fresh  arrivals  were  standing.  Mary  looked  at  them — 
and  fell  instantly  captive. 

It  was  really  not  possible  to  describe  the  woman.  The 
man  might  be  more  readily  characterized — Mary  had  known 
his  sort  before,  or  thought  she  had.  He  was  easily  a  person- 
ality. But  the  woman  was  more.  All  the  author's  favourite 
phrases  failed  her — and  Mary's  vocabulary  was  no  mean 
one,  nor  did  her  powers  of  freshly  restating  familiar  descrip- 
tions of  beautiful  and  delightful  feminine  characters  lie 
within  narrow  limits.  She  was  accustomed  to  find  at  her 
command  the  exact  words  with  which  to  make  vivid  the  idea 
she  wished  to  convey,  to  indicate  a  portrait  with  the  lines 
of  a  sketch,  to  use  high  lights  and  shadows  with  ease.  But 
with  the  woman  before  her  she  felt  her  descriptive  abilities 
at  a  standstill.  At  last  she  had  come  into  contact  with  the 
indescribable. 

It  wasn't  that  Mrs.  Halloway  was  the  loveliest  woman 
she  had  ever  seen.  She  wasn't  exactly  that.  Nor  was  she 
palpably  a  charming  woman.  Even  the  word  ''fascinating" 
wouldn't  fit  her — though  there  was  no  question  of  Mary's 
preoccupation  with  her  from  the  first  moment.  She  was  very 


1 72  FOURSQUARE 

silent,  very  still;  she  sat  in  shadowy  corners,  she  dominated 
nobody,  and  nobody  seemed  especially  eager  to  be  near  her — 
though  somebody  usually  was.  And  yet — it  was  impossible 
for  Mary  to  understand  it — never  in  her  experience  had  it 
been  so  evident  that  in  a  roomful  of  people  one  woman  was 
the  centre  of  them  all.  It  was  as  if  the  effect  of  her  were 
a  dam  over  which  every  particle  of  water  in  a  rushing  river 
must  fall.  Those  waters  might  delay  the  plunge  by  forming 
into  eddys,  into  whirlpools,  into  side  currents,  but  in  the 
end — they  must  go  over!  And  with  the  rest — went  Mary 
Fletcher. 

It  was  a  strange  evening.  Only  after  it  was  all  past  did 
Mary  discover  that  it  wasn't  an  evening  at  all — it  was  the 
greater  part  of  a  night.  She  was  unconscious  of  the  passage 
of  hours.  For  her,  time  simply  stopped.  It  didn't  once 
occur  to  her  that  she  ought  to  think  of  asking  Kirkwood  to 
take  her  home.  One  event  followed  another  rapidly — 
and  yet  there  seemed  no  effort  to  arrange  events.  A  bril- 
liant Russian  held  a  breath-arresting  argument  with  a 
French  actor;  a  young  Roumanian  took  a  rare  old  violin  out 
of  its  case  and  played  to  the  accompaniment  of  an  old  Ger- 
man choir-meister — it  seemed  to  Mary  that  since  the  world 
began  she  had  never  heard  such  music.  An  enchanting 
young  girl  appeared  from  behind  a  great  Chinese  screen  and 
danced.  And  then,  suddenly,  it  was  Mrs.  Halloway  once 
more  who  was  the  focusing  point  for  all  attention,  though  she 
spoke  but  one  sentence  out  of  her  corner — spoke  it  in  a  voice 
so  richly  individual  that  all  must  listen. 

It  wasn't  that  she  really  said  anything  worth  recalling, 
perhaps.  This  was  what  bothered  Mary  when  she  kept 
trying  to  set  down  in  her  mind  something  definite  about  Mrs. 
Halloway.  Her  one  actual  conclusion  was  that  it  couldn't 
be  done.  She  tried  to  list  her  attractions — they  wouldn't 
be  listed.  The  one  thing  that  was  outstanding  was  the  fact 


TO  STIMULATE  IMAGINATION  173 

that  her  husband  was  even  more  under  her  spell  than  any- 
body else.  This  point  of  difference  between  her  and  most 
of  the  other  women  Mary  had  met  in  the  course  of  Kirk- 
wood's  programme  of  education  was  notable. 

The  hours  went  on.  A  delicious  supper  was  served, 
nearly  every  item  of  which  was  new  to  Mary's  palate.  She 
began  to  feel  of  all  people  most  provincial;  Kirkwood  had 
been  absolutely  right  when  he  so  called  her.  With  the  supper 
came  rich  and  fragrant  wines.  She  tasted  them  with  dis- 
cretion, afraid  to  lose  for  an  instant  the  complete  command  of 
herself  lest  she  miss  a  single  reaction.  But  nobody  else  seemed 
to  lose  command,  either;  she  hadn't  dreamed  that  people  could 
drink  as  these  people  did  and  show  no  effects  beyond  an 
increased  cleverness  and  charm  of  speech.  At  midnight 
a  hail  to  the  New  and  farewell  to  the  Old  Year  was  drunk — 
the  violinist  played  something  sombre  like  an  ancient  priest's 
chant,  which  suddenly  brightened  into  a  burst  of  wild  re- 
joicing. Then  things  went  on  again. 

"What  about  it  ?"  whispered  Kirkwood,  at  a  moment  when 
Mary  had  been  left  quite  by  herself.  The  other  guests  had 
not  paid  her  much  attention;  all  the  evening  she  had  felt 
like  an  onlooker — and  hadn't  minded.  All  she  could  ask  was 
to  be  permitted  to  watch  the  others. 

"I'm  quite  out  of  my  head,  I  think,"  Mary  whispered  back. 
"This  isn't  real — it  can't  be." 

"No,  it  isn't  real,"  he  admitted,  on  a  suppressed  laugh. 
"That's  why  you  like  it.  To-morrow  you'll  think  it  didn't 
happen.  Make  the  most  of  it  while  you  have  it — we're  in 
luck  to  be  here  to-night." 

It  was  at  two  in  the  morning  that  the  crisis  came— 
the  dramatic  climax.  Kirkwood  had  just  warned  Mary 
that  he  thought  they'd  better  go,  though  the  others  would 
probably  stay  till  daylight.  She  had  taken  leave  of  her  host 
and  hostes  >  had  assumed  her  wraps,  and  she  and  Kirkwood 


174  FOURSQUARE 

were  standing  in  the  small  hallway  talking  for  a  minute 
with  a  guest,  when  the  attention  of  all  three  was  suddenly 
challenged  by  a  loud,  unpleasant  laugh  in  the  room  within. 
It  was  the  first  ribald  sound  of  the  night.  They  turned  to 
look,  saw  the  young  violinist  with  a  shaking  hand  pointing 
a  pistol  at  his  host,  Halloway;  the  next  moment,  as  the  men 
sprang,  a  shot  rang  out.  Halloway  fell,  and  instantly  all 
was  suppressed  confusion. 

Mary  felt  her  arm  seized,  and  the  next  she  knew  she  was 
being  rushed  out  of  the  house,  across  the  courtyard,  and  into 
the  car  in  which  they  had  come.  Kirkwood's  voice  said 
sharply:  "Get  away  quickly,  Frink;  the  lady's  ill!"  and 
they  were  off.  Mary  was  trembling  in  every  nerve  as  the 
car  slid  out  into  the  cross  street  and  whirled  off  toward  the 
avenue. 


CHAPTER  XI 
STANDING  BY 

HOULDN'T  we  have  stayed  to  try 
to  help?"  was  her  first  shaky,  wor- 
ried question. 

"Good  Lord,  no!"  was  his  smoth- 
ered answer.  "  Better  out  of  it  while 
we  can,  since  we've  nothing  to  do  with 
it,  and  there  are  plenty  to  look  after 
the  thing.  The  police  and  the  press 
will  be  in  on  it  quicker  than  thought.  I 
wouldn't  have  you  so  much  as  called 
1 1  as  a  witness  for  ten  thousand  dollars." 

His  hand  covered  the  mouthpiece 
jjj  of  the  speaking-tube  to  Frink's  seat; 
•S  the  heavy  glass  partition  shut  them 
'  completely  away  from  the  chauffeur, 
yet  his  voice  was  still  guarded. 

"I'll  admit  I  knew  conditions  were 
ragged  there,  but  I  didn't  dream  of 
anything  like  this.  I  wanted  you  to 
study  Esme — you'll  never  have  such 
another  chance  to  find  your  Sylvia. 
I  think  when  you  get  over  this  shock 
you'll  see  it  was  worth  it." 

"I  thought — I  didn't  think  she  was 
Sylvia  at  all.  She  and  her  husband 
seemed — so  devoted  .  .  .  Oh,  poof 

thing! " 

175 


176  FOURSQUARE 

i 
"My  country  mouse!     Don't  tell  me  you  didn't  sense  the 

situation.     You're  really  not  so  blindly  innocent  as  that!" 

She  glanced  at  him,  a  new  horror  gripping  her.  "Why — 
Mrs.  Halloway " 

"She's  not  Mrs.  Halloway.  Nobody  told  you  she  was. 
Nobody  called  her  that.  You  simply  took  it  for  granted — 
quite  simply,  indeed,  my  dear." 

She  was  realizing  all  at  once  that  the  wine  he  had  drunk 
had  done  its  work,  though  his  voice  and  hand  were  steady. 
His  manner  toward  her  had  become  subtly  different;  she 
didn't  like  it  in  the  least.  She  was  instantly  and  intensely 
displeased  with  him;  her  fright  over  the  tragedy  she  had 
witnessed  was  now  mingled  with  rage  with  Kirkwood  for 
having  taken  her  to  a  place  where  such  things  could  happen. 

She  drew  as  far  away  from  him  as  possible,  into  the  corner 
of  the  wide  seat.  "If  I  had  known,  I  wouldn't  have  gone," 
she  said,  in  an  icy  small  voice. 

He  laughed.  "I  knew  you  wouldn't.  But  I  knew  you 
needed  to  go,  to  get  those  beautiful  eyes  of  yours  a  little  wider 
open  to  the  world.  Other  things  being  equal  I  wouldn't 
have  taken  you.  As  a  mere  society  girl  I  would  have 
shielded  you  from  such  a  scene  or  contact  with  such  people. 
As  a  professional  writer — well — I  tell  you  you  needed  to  see 
for  yourself  what  you  had  merely  heard  of.  You  needed 
to  feel  the  tremendous  charm  of  those  whose  genius  more  or 
less  justifies,  for  them,  a  mode  of  life  that  wouldn't  be  toler' 
ated  elsewhere.  Every  man  and  woman  you  met  there  to- 
night is  a  genius.  You  didn't  hear  the  actual  name  of  one  of 
them.  The  Halloways  aren't  Halloways  at  all — it's  not 
even  their  house.  It  was  leased  by  them  through  an  agent, 
from  the  owner,  who's  in  Europe.  The  other  people  who  live 
in  that  court  haven't  a  notion  who  these  are — and  never 
will  know,  unless  this  affair  brings  it  out.  But  it  won't — 
if  sheer  cleverness  will  prevent  it.  Look  at  to-morrow 


STANDING  BY  177 

morning's  papers — there'll  be  a  perfectly  straight  story  about 
it.  Even  if  Halloway — that  isn't  his  name — dies,  those  peo- 
ple will  all  swear  it  was  an  accident.  You  needn't  be  anxious 
in  the  least,  since  we  got  away.  Stop  shaking,  Mary  dear — 
and  tell  me  you  forgive  me.  After  all,  it  was  just  a  little 
glimpse  of  life.  I'm  almost  glad  you  saw  the  shooting, 
since  it  gave  you  a  reaction  you'd  never  otherwise  have  had  a 
chance  at.  Anyhow,  it's  not  my  fault  you  saw  it.  But  even 
that  was  worth  it — to  get  your  Sylvia.  There  isn't  such  an- 
another  woman  as  Esme  on  two  continents.  And  now — you 
can  paint  her!  I  could  have  sketched  her  for  you  till 
the  stars  grew  cold  and  you  wouldn't  have  got  the  outside 
edges  of  her.  Thank  me  for  that,  anyhow!" 

But  Mary  would  thank  him  for  nothing.  A  cold  fright 
enveloped  her.  She  tried  to  remember  that  as  an  editor  and 
former  newspaper  man  his  attitude  was  natural  enough — 
for  himself,  at  least;  what  she  didn't  like  was  his  forcing 
it  upon  her.  The  character  of  Sylvia — did  he  intend  that 
she  should  make  of  it  something  for  which  this  Mrs. 
Halloway — whose  name  wasn't  that — must  be  the  proto- 
type? Then  she  hadn't  fully  understood  him  before.  And — • 
even  if  he  had  thought  it  necessary  to  take  her  to  such  a 
place  as  that,  was  it  fair — was  it  even  decent — of  him  to  do 
it  without  giving  her  the  chance  to  say  whether  she  would 
take  the  obvious  risk?  Even  had  no  tragedy  occurred,  he 
had  had  no  right  to  take  her  where  her  hostess  was  a 
woman  not  fit  to  be  a  hostess  to  any  young  woman  ol 
Mary's  world.  It  was  an  outrage;  she  would  never  forgive 
him! 

His  voice  went  on  presently,  on  a  note  it  was  hard  to  bear. 

"You're  silent.  I'm  condemned.  Then — dismiss  from 
your  mind  the  notion  that  you  can  ever  be  a  great  workman. 
There  can  be  only  little  make-believe  tools  in  your  equipment. 
Nothing  with  a  fine  edge — nothing  that  can  cut — or  gouge—- 


i78  FOURSQUARE 

or  bore.  All  you  want  is  a  plane — some  sandpaper — a  bottle 
of  oil — so  you  can  make  everything  look  smooth  and  polished. 
No  rough  edges  may  show — oh,  no — it  wouldn't  be  right 
not  to  conceal  the  ugly  holes — if  only  with  putty.  Putty! 
What  a  useful  material  it  is!  My  Lord — you've  lots  of  it  on 
hand,  haven't  you,  Mary,  my  dear!" 

She  tried  to  close  her  ears.  She  was  forgiving  him  now — 
on  one  score.  Those  delicious  wines  and  liqueurs  had  been 
insidious — he  really  wasn't  responsible.  The  John  Kirk- 
wood  she  knew  was  a  gentleman;  he  wouldn't  have  been 
capable  of  addressing  her  like  this.  All  she  could  do  was  to 
let  him  relieve  his  mounting  resentment  by  his  increasingly 
plain  and  cutting  speech  and  to  make  him  no  reply.  She  sat 
looking  steadily  out  of  the  window  at  the  flying  streets, 
longing  for  the  moment  when  she  could  be  rid  of  him,  and  be 
safely  back  with  Alexandra.  Alexandra?  Could  she  pos- 
sibly tell  her  of  this  night's  adventure?  Never!  Mary's 
mind  was  already  made  up  on  this  point.  Yet  how  cover  her 
own  shaken  nerves? — for  that  they  were  shaken  she  knew  in 
every  tingling,  chilled  fibre.  Lucky  if  she  didn't  go  quite 
to  pieces  when  she  got  the  chance. 

He  said  more — much  more — did  John  Kirkwood,  as  a  man 
will  at  a  certain  stage  of  intoxication.  He  was  eloquent  in 
his  anger — so  eloquent  that  his  language  would  have  made 
welcome  copy  for  one  who  wanted  just  that  sort  of  material. 
He  told  Mary  Fletcher  precisely  what  he  thought  of  a  would- 
be  artist  who  was  wrapped  round  with  petty  fears,  who 
didn't  dare  see  what  the  world  was  like — who  thought  it 
was  art  to  paint  what  wasn't  true,  what  didn't  exist,  and  try 
to  foist  it  on  a  sad,  bad  public  who  knew  better — damned 
better — and  would  only  laugh  and  cast  it  into  the  discard — 
where  it  deserved  to  be.  Only  the  end  of  the  road  brought 
him  to  the  end  of  his  harangue — where  he  put  the  finishing 
touch  on  his  brutality  by  telling  her  that  after  all  she  had 


STANDING  BY  179 

never  been  so  near  being  madly  beautiful  as  she  was  at  this 
moment,  and  that  he 

The  chauffeur  opened  the  door,  and  the  appearance  of  a 
white  and  shaken  Mary  being  helped  out  of  the  car  with  her 
furs  pulled  well  up  over  her  mouth  gave  colour  to  Kirkwood's 
mention  of  her  illness.  She  allowed  him  to  take  her  to  the 
door  of  the  lift,  then  gave  him  a  frozen  good-night.  For  a 
dreadful  moment  she  thought  he  was  going  to  follow  her 
into  the  car,  but  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  he  turned 
away. 

Alexandra  had  retired,  of  course,  long  since.  There  was 
not  much  sleep  for  Mary,  when  at  last  she  tried  to  sleep.  For 
a  long  time  she  hadn't  even  tried.  She  had  sat  huddled  on  a 
footstool  close  by  the  gas  logs  of  the  fireplace,  where  she  had 
turned  the  heat  up  to  a  high  point.  Shivering  now  and 
then,  she  had  gone  over  and  over  in  her  mind  the  events  of 
the  night,  recalling  all  the  most  trivial  things,  while  always 
before  her  stood  out  that  last  poignant  scene,  like  a  group 
shown  by  a  searchlight.  Somehow  one  figure  was  ever  pres- 
ent with  her,  that  of  the  strange  woman  who  had  so  challenged 
her  imagination.  She  remembered  the  colour  of  her  gown 
— it  had  been  an  odd,  flame-blue,  of  extreme  severity  of  line. 
Her  hair  had  been  black — drawn  down  oddly  and  very 
closely  almost  to  obscure  her  eyes,  which  Mary  thought  were 
blue,  like  her  gown.  Her  face  had  been  deadly  pale  through- 
out the  evening — yet  full  of  life,  somehow.  She  had  had  an 
odd  mouth — perhaps  it  was  her  mouth  which 

Oh,  what  was  the  use  of  trying  to  analyze  this  creature, 
with  her  mysterious  hold  upon  everybody?  Kirkwood 
had  said  they  were  all  geniuses — those  people.  She  could 
hardly  believe  him — were  geniuses  so  plenty,  then?  As  for 
Kirkwood  himself — she  did  her  best  not  to  think  of  him. 
The  thing  that  held  her,  made  it  impossible  for  her  even  to 
attempt  to  sleep,  was  the  memory  of  what  Mark  Fenn  had 


i8o  FOURSQUARE 

said  of  her  projected  book. — "You'll  only  have  set  up  a  temple 
to  the  lesser  gods,  with  the  devil  lurking  in  the  background." 
It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  day  which  had  already 
well  begun  when  Mary  came  home,  that  Alexandra  brought 
in  Kirkwood's  propitiatory  flowers.  Mary  had  told  her 
nothing — had  lain  in  bed  all  day,  pleading  a  splitting  head- 
ache after  her  dissipation.  Alexandra  had  regarded  hei 
with  troubled  eyes,  but  had  asked  no  questions.  She  brought 
her  the  great  box  silently,  and  when  Mary  waved  it  away 
took  it  out  again,  arranged  the  enormous  bunch  of  roses 
it  contained,  and  put  them  on  the  piano.  But  the  box  had 
also  held  a  note,  and  this  she  brought  back.  Reluctantly  it 
was  opened. 

It's  little  use  trying  in  this  way  to  express  my  regret  for  having 
let  you  in  for  so  much  that  was  distasteful.  But  I  want  to  get  word 
to  you  somehow  that  you  need  fear  nothing  further  as  a  result  of  the 
visit  to  give  you  material  for  your  work — as  you  will  see  by  the 
afternoon  papers.  The  morning  ones  didn't  get  the  affair  at  all. 

Personally — I'm  asking  you  to  be  generous  as  well  as  just,  and 
permit  me  to  call  for  only  an  hour  this  evening.  It  will  not  be  pos- 
sible for  me  to  have  any  rest  or  relief  of  mind  until  I  see  you.  I  think 
you  know  the  mood  in  which  I  necessarily  now  am — one  of  black 
humiliation  for  having  in  any  way  distressed  you.  He  who  was 
capable  of  doing  that  was  not,  I  beg  you  to  believe, 

JOHN  KIRKWOOD. 

She  let  him  come.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  she  was  anxiou* 
to  have  him  come,  much  as  she  dreaded  meeting  him,  for  she 
simply  couldn't  bear  to  continue  to  think  of  him  as  she  had 
last  seen  him.  In  some  way  he  must  reassure  her — in  some 
way  make  her  believe  him,  as  he  himself  had  said,  in- 
capable of  really  being  all  that  she  had  been  obliged  to  think 
him. 

When  he  came,  her  first  sight  of  him  a  little  softened 
her  heart,  which  had  been  hard  against  him,  though  she  had 


STANDING  BY  181 

meant  to  keep  it  hard.  He  was  very  grave,  looked  as  if 
he  hadn't  slept,  was  extraordinarily  quiet  of  manner.  She 
didn't  offer  her  hand,  and  he  made  no  effort  to  claim  that 
usual  greeting.  She  herself  was  also  grave  and  quiet.  They 
might  have  been  two  people  of  very  slight  acquaintance, 
meeting  on  a  matter  of  serious  import. 

Contrary  to  his  custom,  Kirkwood  did  not  so  much  as 
glance  toward  the  familiar  corner  where  the  desk  stood.  Mary, 
indeed,  had  removed  from  that  corner  all  appearance  of 
work.  The  typewriter  was  covered,  the  desk  closed,  not  a 
page  of  manuscript  was  in  sight.  Things  were  so  painfully 
in  order  that  she  herself  was  feeling  like  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  place.  What  had  happened?  She  herself  hardly 
knew.  But  something  unquestionably  had. 

"As  I  told  you  in  my  note,"  Kirkwood  began  immediately, 
"the  affair  of  last  evening  is  absolutely  closed,  as  far  as  you 
are  concerned.  The  names  of  no  guests  were  given  to  re- 
porters— those  of  the  principals  were  fictitious.  You  need 
never  give  the  whole  experience  another  anxious  thought. 
I  hardly  need  say  I  would  have  used  every  means  in  my 
power — and  they  are  many — to  prevent  the  slightest  un- 
pleasantness for  you.  It  wasn't  necessary.  Those  people 
have  their  own  code — it  doesn't  permit  involvement  in  their 
troubles  for  their  guests.  It  is  all  over  for  me  as  well  as  for 
you — as  if  we  hadn't  been  there." 

"The  man  who  was  shot "  said  Mary  slowly,  and 

with  reluctance,  "is  he — will  he " 

"He  died  at  noon.  Those  who  were  present  testified  that 
the  shooting  was  accidental;  the  story  given  out  was  sim- 
ple and  straightforward — there  was  nobody  to  question  it. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  perfectly  managed.  And 
nobody  will  ever  call  upon  you  or  me  to  testify  to — what  we 
thought  we  saw.  Perhaps  we — didn't  see  it." 

Mary  shuddered.     "Oh,  I  wish  I  hadn't!" 


182  FOURSQUARE 

"I  wish  you  hadn't!"  His  voice  was  full  of  sadness.  "God 
knows  I  wish  you  hadn't.  It  was  too  terrible  an  education — 
not  even  I,  who  am  so  keen  to  have  you  know  life  as  it  is, 
could  have  wished  you  to  have  that  memory." 

"But — but" — her  eyes  widened — "  if  we  did  see  it — and 
we  did,  you  know — won't  we  have  to " 

He  didn't  allow  her  to  suffer  for  an  instant  under  the 
thought  that  had  flashed  through  her  mind.  "The  other 
man  took  his  own  life,"  he  said,  very  gently,  "two  hours  ago. 
That  isn't  even  in  the  papers  yet.  So — you  see — as  I  said — 
it's  all  over  for  you  and  me,  as  if  we  hadn't  been  there.  Only 
the  memory — and  for  that,  I  want  you  to  believe  that  if  I 
could  take  it  from  you  by  burning  it  into  my  own  brain  more 
deeply,  I  would.  I  would,  Mary.  For  I — am  desperately 
unhappy  over — what  I  rather  confusedly  remember  of  what 
I  said  to  you  on  the  way  home." 

She  was  silent.  She  had  turned  very  white — whiter  even 
than  she  had  been  when  he  came  in,  and  that  had  been  a 
pallor  which  had  shocked  him. 

"I  know  it  was  inexcusable,  even  by  the  fact  that  I  wasn't 
altogether  myself.  I'd  had  a  double  stupefaction,  you 
know — the  wine  and  the  tragedy  together  had  spoiled  my 
judgment — put  words  into  my  mouth.  I  was  anxious  to 
divert  your  mind.  I  thought  if  we  could  talk  about  your 
work  rather  than  about — what  had  happened,  it  would  help 
you  to  get  yourself  in  hand.  I  was  a  poor  physician,  I  know 
— but — perhaps  it  was  better  that  you  should  be  angry  with 
me.  It  took  your  mind  from  what  was  worse  for  it.  But 
even  so — I'm  horribly  sorry — and  ashamed.  I  can  only  beg 
you  to  believe  me." 

He  let  his  case  rest  there.  While  she  waited,  considering 
what  to  say  to  him,  an  old  saying  of  her  father's  came  to  her 
mind:  "The  only  thing  one  can  do  with  an  apology  is  to 
accept  it."  It  was  true,  she  knew;  certainly  if  one  were  con- 


STANDING  BY  183 

vinced  of  its  sincerity,  as  in  this  case  she  could  hardly  help 
being  convinced.  Yet  there  remained  her  displeasure  with 
him  for  having  taken  her  to  that  place  at  all,  without  her  con- 
sent. He  had  expressed  no  regret  for  that.  She  couldn't  let 
that  go — couldn't  take  him  back  on  the  old  ground  of  con- 
fidence in  his  guidance — not  while  he  wouldn't  admit  that 
he  had  been  wrong.  She  might  be  very  much  of  a  prude; 
undoubtedly  there  were  plenty  of  women  writers  who  would 
have  welcomed  the  introduction  to  a  dubious,  brilliant  com- 
pany like  that  of  the  previous  night,  even  though  their  consent 
wasn't  asked  beforehand.  Somehow  Mary  Fletcher  couldn't 
feel  that  Kirkwood  was  justified,  although  she  couldn't  wholly 
deny  that  the  experience  had  had  a  certain  value  for 
her. 

It  was  at  this  point  in  the  interview,  while  silence  was  still 
lying  like  an  open  well  between  the  pair,  that  a  telegram  was 
sent  up  to  Mary — the  brief  message  which  cut  into  the  situa- 
tion like  a  knife,  solving  for  the  present,  at  least,  all  its 
difficulties.  Alexandra  brought  it  to  her  and  waited  while 
she  read  it — one  arm  about  her,  for  Mary's  pallor  had 
alarmed  her  as  she  caught  sight  of  it  on  her  way  into  the  room. 

Mary  read  the  two  lines  in  a  flash,  and  her  hand  clenched 
on  the  yellow  paper.  She  gave  it  back  to  Alexandra  and 
sank  down  into  a  chair,  her  head  on  her  arms.  Alexandra 
scanned  the  message,  while  Kirkwood  came  hurriedly  to 
Mary's  other  side. 

Miss  Graham  suddenly  very  ill  asks  for  you  Doctor  Reade  ad- 
vises no  delay  though  case  not  hopeless  keep  up  courage  standing  by. 

FENN. 

As  one  comes  breathlessly  to  the  end  of  an  exciting  chapter 
in  a  book,  and  turns  the  page  to  find  the  curtain  risen  on  a 
scene  a  thousand  miles  away,  the  whole  previous  situation 
left  in  suspension,  with  no  clue  given  as  to  how  it  all  came  out, 


i84  FOURSQUARE 

so,  between  two  breaths,  one  of  apprehension,  the  other  of 
recognition,  Mary  had  exchanged  one  situation  of  unhappi- 
ness  for  another.  Yet  so  full  of  misery  had  been  the  hours 
that  had  gone  before,  it  was  almost  with  relief  that  she  ac- 
cepted the  necessity  for  instant  action  of  whatever  sort. 

It  was  very  evident  that  John  Kirkwood,  also,  welcomed 
this  chance  to  do  things  rather  than  to  think  them.  He  be- 
came at  once  the  man  of  experience  and  resource,  began 
a  series  of  telephonings  to  information  bureaus  and  ticket 
offices,  and  presently  announced  that  all  was  satisfactorily 
arranged.  He  even  expressed  the  belief  that  he  could  secure 
for  Alexandra  a  short  leave  of  absence  from  her  library  that 
she  might  accompany  Mary  upon  her  journey.  But  Mary 
at  once  forbade  such  a  draft  upon  friendship. 

"I'm  no  child  to  be  taken  care  of  everywhere,"  she  said, 
smiling  wanly  at  her  friend,  as  she  laid  necessaries  in  a  travel- 
ling case  and  looked  up  gloves  and  handkerchiefs.  "It  will 
do  me  good  to  see  this  through  by  myself." 

Before  she  left — just  two  hours  after  the  message  had  been 
received — she  had  a  hurried  consultation  with  Alexandra. 
Both  Miss  Warren  and  Kirkwood  were  to  see  her  off,  and 
the  latter  had  gone  down  to  the  station  before  them  to  look 
after  a  detail  of  reservations  and  luggage. 

"I  don't  know  what  this  may  mean,  Sandy,"  Mary  said, 
trying  to  speak  composedly  as  she  adjusted  her  veil.  "If 
Aunt  Sara  is  so  very  ill,  even  if  she — gets  well — it  will  prob- 
ably be  a  matter  of  a  long  time  before  I  can  leave  her.  She 
doesn't  recuperate  quickly — she's  too  frail.  In  any  case — I 
can't  make  plans.  The  only  thing  I  know  is  that  I  must  get 
back  to  her  and  never  leave  her  while  she  wants  me.  She's 
—all  I  have " 

"Yes,  dear — of  course  you'll  stay.  And  I'll  stay  here,  for 
a  time,  until  we  know.  And  I'll  take  care  of  the  manuscript. 
Hadn't  I  best  put  it  in  a  safety  vault,  at  the  bank,  for  even 


STANDING  BY  185 

the — maybe — short  time  before  you  can  make  definite  plans? 
Then  if  you  want  it  sent  on,  I'll  send  it  registered." 

"You've  learned  the  value  of  such  stuff,  haven't  you, 
Sandy? — when  one  hasn't  a  copy.  Yes,  take  care  of  it.  If  I 
stay  on  I'll  want  it — I  suppose — though  just  now  I  feel 
as  if  I  never  cared  to  see  it  again.  All  these  weeks  of  work 
and  rush — I  don't  know  whether  they've  produced  anything 
— or  nothing. — What  does  it  matter?  Nothing  matters — 
if  I  can  only  keep — her." 

"I  heard  of  Doctor  Reade  while  I  was  there.  All  New* 
comb  was  talking  of  him  that  week — do  you  remember? — • 
because  he'd  just  pulled  some  prominent  person  through  a 
frightful  crisis.  If  he  says  the  case  isn't  hopeless,  you  may  be 
sure  he's  doing  his  best  to  keep  it  from  being  so.  Try  to  rest 
on  that,  Mary  dear,  on  the  journey.  I  know  it  will  seem 
long." 

On  the  way  to  the  station  Mary,  looking  out  on  the  familiar 
windings  of  the  Drive,  said  with  a  sigh : 

"  I  seem  fated  to  meet  some  crisis  in  this  city.  *  The  City 
of  Dreadful  Night '  it  surely  is  to  me.  It  was  night  when — 
the  cable  came  from  Italy.  Night,  a  year  after,  when  I  sailed 
for  France — thinking  of  them — thankful  I  could  do  something 
hard,  to  help  me  forget.  It  was  night — New  Year's  Eve — 

when "  She  broke  off,  and  went  on  hastily.  "Now  it's 

night  again,  and  I'm  off — for No,  I  wont  fear  the  worst. 

Only — Sandy — if  I'm  left  alone,  I'll — oh,  I'll  want  you  then, 
of  all  people."  She  bit  her  lip  hard,  and  her  hand  clutched 
Alexandra's  tight.  "I'm  not  going  to  cry,"  she  said  sternly. 
"I'll  prove  I  can  be  strong — as  I  used  to  be  before  I  got  to 
putting  blood  and  tears  into  my  work,  breaking  myself  down 
emotionally.  It's  such  a  mistake  to  cry!  It  only  weakens 
one,  doesn't  it?" 

On  this  note  she  went  away.  Alexandra  really  wondered 
at  her,  so  composed  she  had  become.  Alexandra  couldn't 


186  FOURSQUARE 

know  the  actual  relief  it  was  to  her  to  have  something  to  think 
about  besides  what  had  happened  on  New  Year's  Eve. 

At  the  station  she  avoided  being  alone  for  a  moment  with 
John  Kirkwood,  and  after  one  or  two  efforts  at  a  word  with 
her  he  gave  it  up.  The  only  thing  he  could  do  to  restore  the 
old  confidence  and  understanding  was  to  serve  her,  as  he  was 
doing,  with  quiet  consideration,  and  trust  to  time  and  ab- 
sence to  heal  the  breach. 

Kirkwood  saw  her  upon  the  train  and  delayed  until  she 
was  established  in  her  section — he  knew  she  wouldn't  rec- 
ognize the  reason  why  no  other  traveller  would  come  along 
to  share  the  facing  sleeper  seats  with  her;  he  had  bought  the 
extra  full-fare  ticket  necessary  to  this  end.  Now,  at  the  last 
moment,  he  bent  over  her. 

"You  won't  go  away  without  forgiving  me?"  his  low  voice 
urged.  "It's  hard  enough  to  stay  behind  and  see  you  off 
upon  this  errand — without  that." 

She  gave  him  her  hand;  she  could  hardly  do  otherwise. 
One  doesn't  willingly  part  from  one  who  has  been  a  friend 
without  the  wish  to  leave  peace  behind.  He  took  the  hand 
in  both  his  own,  gave  it  a  hard,  long  pressure  which  spoke 
sympathy  with  her  trouble,  and  as  the  train  began  to  move 
ran  down  the  car  without  looking  back.  Outside  a  moment 
later  she  saw  his  lifted  hat  and  permitted  herself  to  wave 
back  at  him.  After  all,  the  memory  of  a  thousand  kindnesses 
at  his  hands  rose  up  to  bid  her  act  as  naturally  as  she  might. 
When,  with  the  train  under  headway,  the  porter  brought  her 
a  box  which  held  a  great  bunch  of  the  freshest,  purplest  vio- 
lets she  had  ever  seen,  her  sense  of  injury  and  resentment 
toward  him  left  her,  for  the  time  at  least,  and  she  buried  her 
face  in  their  cool  fragrance.  Perhaps  if  they  were  kept  very 
carefully  in  the  cold  and  dark,  they  might  be  fit  to  bring  to 
Aunt  Sara,  to-morrow  night.  Oh — if  they  might  only  find 
her  able  to  notice  them! 


STANDING  BY  187 

Twenty-four  hours  upon  a  rushing  train  may  seem  a  week. 
It  seemed  to  Mary,  as  the  last  stop  before  Newcomb  found 
her  packed  and  ready  to  leave  the  car,  that  for  a  period  in- 
terminable she  had  been  sitting  alone  in  that  section,  with 
her  anxious  thoughts  far  ahead  of  her.  At  almost  every 
stopping  point  she  had  hoped  for  a  telegram  of  reassurance; 
it  would  be  altogether  like  Mark  Fenn  to  relieve  her  sus- 
pense in  that  way  if  he  could.  That  she  received  no  message 
served  to  increase  her  fears  till  they  were  well  nigh  unbear- 
able. The  early  winter  dark  had  long  fallen  when  certain 
familiar  lightmarks  began  to  show  themselves  along  the  way 
— a  great  power  station — a  small  factory  in  full  blast — a 
slanting  row  of  arc-lights  along  a  highway  leading  into  the 
town.  There  was  a  certain  crossing  where  trains  always  came 
to  a  standstill;  with  her  face  against  the  pane  Mary  stared 
out,  her  heart  beating  smotheringly,  for  from  this  point  she 
could,  in  clear  weather,  knowing  where  to  look,  make  out  the 
Graham  house  upon  the  hill. — Yes,  she  was  sure  she  saw  the 
lighted  windows.  Then — but  wouldn't  the  house  be  bright  as 
usual,  in  any  case  ?  The  days  had  gone  by  when  people  drew 
their  blinds  and  shrouded  their  lights  to  show  that  bereave- 
ment was  within. 

The  porter  came  for  her  luggage.  Mary  followed  him, 
sick  with  terror  of  what  might  be  awaiting  her,  yet  hoping 
against  hope — against  conviction — that  in  another  five  min- 
utes she  might  be  drawing  long  breaths  of  relief.  She  hadn't 
known  how  she  loved  little  Aunt  Sara  till  she  had  spent  this 
night  and  day  in  the  fear  of  losing  her.  Mark  Fenn  would 
be  on  the  platform,  she  knew  that;  as  she  came  out  into  the 
vestibule  she  was  conscious  that  whatever  news  awaited  her 
she  would  not  have  to  face  it  alone.  "Standing  by — stand- 
ing by  " — those  were  the  words  that  had  brought  her  all  her 
lonely  way. 

,\  compact  figure,  broad-shouldered  yet  lithe  of  movement, 


i88  FOURSQUARE 

ran  down  the  platform.  A  lean,  strong  face,  the  eyes  steady 
though  the  lips  were  sober,  looked  anxiously  down  at  her,  a 
hand  grasped  hers.  Her  car  was  far  down  the  track;  the 
lights  were  dim  here,  but  somehow  Mary  knew  by  the  very 
silence  which  followed  the  sound  of  the  voice  speaking  her 
name  that  he  had  no  good  news  for  her. 

"Tell  me "  she  breathed. 

"It's  all  over — dear.  Quietly — we  think  painlessly. 
.  .  .  Mary — I'm  going  to  help  you  bear  it." 

He  had  drawn  her  hand  through  his  arm — he  was  walking 
slowly,  that  she  might  meet  the  first  shock  of  it  down  here  in 
the  faint  light,  away  from  the  people  on  the  platform.  Some- 
how, through  all  her  pain  and  fright — yes,  it  was  fright,  at 
what  was  facing  her,  alone  in  the  world  with  no  near  kin — she 
felt  that  she  was  leaning  upon  sturdy  strength.  By  the  time 
they  had  reached  the  station  itself,  and  Harriet  Fenn  had 
come  to  her,  she  was  a  little  steadied. 

"This  is  so  good  of  you,  Harriet,"  she  was  able  to  say,  and 
was  even  surprised  at  the  sound  of  her  own  voice. 

"I  don't  know  who  should  try  to  be  good  to  you  if  not  we, 
Mary  dear,"  Harriet  responded  warmly. 

She  sat  between  the  brother  and  sister  in  the  car  which 
had  been  waiting.  Through  the  town — up  the  hill —  yes,  the 
house  was  lighted  quite  as  usual.  Only  the  windows  of  Miss 
Graham's  own  room  were  dim — Mary  recognized  that  with 
a  low  sob  she  couldn't  wholly  keep  back,  at  which  Harriet's 
hand,  which  was  holding  hers,  tightened  its  grasp.  On  her 
other  arm  she  felt  Mark's  pressure  for  a  minute  as  the  car 
turned  in.  On  the  way  he  had  quietly,  and  in  few  words, 
given  her  the  outlines  of  her  aunt's  brief  illness.  There  had 
been  little  suffering,  and  when  she  had  known  that  Mary  wa» 
coming  her  eyes  had  brightened  and  she  had  rested  content. 
They  thought  she  hadn't  known  she  wouldn't  live  to  see  her 
beloved  niece— her  sister's  child.  Altogether,  one  thing  was 


STANDING  BY  189 

certain,  Mary  wasn't  to  blame  herself — she  had  done  all  she 
could. 

"One  of  the  nurses,"  Harriet  had  said,  in  her  pleasant, 
natural  way  of  speaking  which  fell  gratefully  upon  Mary's 
ears,  "  is  to  stay  on  with  you,  for  a  little.  We  felt  you'd  be 
sure  to  like  her.  She's  Miss  O'Grady,  the  brightest,  kindest 
soul  we  think  we've  ever  known.  From  the  moment  she 
came  into  the  house  we  knew  she  was  a  treasure,  and  Miss 
Graham  turned  to  her  as  a  child  might.  She'll  be  waiting 
for  you,  and  you'll  just  let  her  take  charge  of  you." 

"You  can't  do  anything  else,  with  Miss  O'Grady,"  Mark 
had  added.  "Dr.  Reade  couldn't  say  enough  about  her. 
He  sent  a  long  way  to  get  her.  He  knew  her  first  in  France; 
she  was  a  Red  Cross  nurse  in  his  hospital." 

"My  first  thought  was  to  take  you  home  with  me,"  Har- 
riet went  on.  "  But  the  second  was  that,  with  Miss  O'Grady, 
you'd  be  more  comfortable  there,  in  your  own  room." 

Mary  found  herself  wondering  if  she  wanted  any  nurse 
about,  no  matter  how  kind.  But  it  had  all  been  arranged; 
she  couldn't  say  she  wouldn't  have  it.  It  would  be  easy 
enough  to  send  Miss  O'Grady  away  after  a  day  or  two.  In 
spite  of  the  Fenns'  enthusiasm  over  her  Mary  thought  she 
should  be  quite  through  with  the  stranger  in  a  short  time  » 

And  then  she  was  out  of  the  car,  and  lip  the  steps  beneath 
the  tall  white  pillars.  The  door  opened,  the  light  from  the 
hallway  fell  upon  Eliza's  solicitous  face,  a  little  drawn  with 
weeping.  Behind  her  stood  a  sturdy  figure  in  crisp  white  uni- 
form, the  upstanding  white  cap  with  its  narrow  black  band  set 
upon  a  mass  of  the  reddest,  curliest  hair  Mary  had  ever  seen. 
The  face  below  was  a  pretty  Irish  face,  the  eyes  blue-gray, 
the  nose  a  bit  up-tilted,  the  broad  mouth  friendlily  smiling. 

"Oh,  Miss  Mary!"  cried  Eliza,  and  her  tears  fell  on  Mary's 
hands. 

"Miss  Fletcher,  this  is  Miss  Rose  O'Grady,"  said  Mark 


190  FOURSQUARE 

Fenn's  voice.     "I  give  you  into  her  care.     I  can  do  nothing 
better  for  you,  I'm  sure." 

There  was  a  minute  or  two  of  uncertainty  on  Mary's  part, 
while  she  looked  about  her,  her  heart  beating  heavily  at  sight 
of  the  familiar  old  hall,  with  its  wide,  low-stepped  staircase, 
its  family  portraits,  dark  with  age,  its  look  of  gracious  hos- 
pitality unchanged  with  the  loss  that  had  come  upon  the 
house.  Then  a  warm,  strong  arm  came  about  her  tired 
shoulders,  and  the  nicest,  most  comforting  voice  she  thought 
she  had  ever  heard  said  gently  and  yet  confidently: 
>  "Just  come  along  with  me  now,  Miss  Mary,  up  to  your  own 
room.  It's  a  hot  bath  you'll  be  wanting,  and  a  bit  of  a  rest — • 
and  then  the  best  cup  of  broth  Eliza  ever  made — and  she's  a 
wonderful  cook,  as  you  know.  A  night's  sleep  you'll  be 
having  before  you  put  your  mind  to  one  thing  in  this  house — 
and  to-morrow's  another  day,  and  you'll  find  strength  for  it. 
Come — and  trust  me  to  see  to  everything.  It's  for  that  I'm 
here." 

Mary  looked  back  at  Mark  Fenn  as  she  suffered  herself  to 
be  led  away  up  the  stairs.  He  smiled  and  nodded,  as  who 
would  say — "You  see?  Just  let  her  have  her  way."  She 
nodded  back.  All  in  a  moment  somehow  she  knew  that 
Rose  O'Grady  herself  was  what  she  needed — just  the  Irish 
nurse  who  had  known  what  to  say  to  the  weariest,  saddest, 
most  needy  traveller  who  had  come  in  under  the  old  home 
roof  in  many  a  day. 


ttC 


CHAPTER  XII 
Two  RED  TULIPS 


O,"  Dr.  Christopher  Reade  assured 
Harret  and  Mark  Fenn,  "I  don't 
think  you  need  be  really  alarmed 
about  Miss  Fletcher.  It  may  take 
some  time  to  repair  damages,  but 
with  Rose  O'Grady  in  command  she'll 
have  to  obey  my  orders.  Rose  has 
put  her  to  bed — and  there'll  she'll 
stay." 

"I'm  relieved  to  hear  it,"  Harriet 
said  decidedly,  and  Mark  gravely 
added  a  word  of  assent. 

The  three  were  holding  a  brief 
counsel  in  the  drawing-room  of  the 
Graham  house.  It  was  the  evening  of 
the  day  in  which  Miss  Sara  Graham 
had  taken  her  last  short  journey  to 
the  old  churchyard  where  the  January 
snows  had  already  woven  for  her  a 
heavy  white  blanket.  Mary  had  kept 
up  bravely  through  everything  from 
the  hour  of  her  arrival;  had  stood 
with  a  white,  still  face  throughout  the 
short  service  in  the  snow,  and  then 
had  come  home  to  collapse  completely 
upon  the  threshold  of  that  which  was 
now  her  own  and  only  home.  Mark 
191 


i92  FOURSQUARE 

Fenn,  upon  whose  arm  she  had  leaned  in  brotherly  sub- 
stitute for  that  of  the  kinsman  she  had  not,  had  carried  her 
up  the  stairs  and  laid  her  upon  her  own  bed,  turning  an 
anxious,  questioning  look  upon  Rose  O'Grady,  who  had  run 
up  before  him  to  lead  the  way. 

"Sure  and  it's  no  wonder,"  the  Irish  nurse  had  said  softly, 
as  she  adjusted  pillows  and  blankets,  "and  her  keeping  up 
by  nerve  alone.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  pluck  of  her  she'd  have 
let  go  hours  agone.  Thank  you,  Mr.  Fenn — and  I'll  soon 
have  her  comfortable.  You  can  be  quite  easy  in  your 
mind." 

This,  Mark  had  recognized,  had  been  for  the  benefit  of 
Mary  herself,  who  had  been  only  momentarily  unconscious, 
and  who,  though  she  now  lay  like  a  limp  white  flower  upon 
her  bed,  had  herself  murmured,  "Thank  you — for  every- 
thing," as  he  laid  her  down.  Afterward,  however,  when  he 
had  telephoned  for  Dr.  Reade,  he  had  a  moment  with  Miss 
O'Grady  in  the  hall  in  which  he  got  a  little  nearer  the  facts 
in  the  case. 

"I  don't  know  what  kind  of  an  exhausting  life  she's  been 
living,"  she  had  said,  "but  whatever  it  was  it's  taken  the 
heart  and  life  out  of  her.  I've  seen  pictures  of  her  in  the 
magazines.  She's  only  the  shadow  of  them.  I  don't  mean 
bodily  alone,  Mr.  Fenn.  There's  something  gone  from  her — 
since  they  were  taken.  It'll  be  for  Dr.  Reade  and  Rose 
O'Grady — and  Professor  Fenn — maybe — to  put  it  back." 

"We'll  certainly  all  do  our  best,"  he  had  agreed. 

Downstairs,  after  Dr.  Reade  had  come  down  to  them,  the 
three  had  discussed  plans  for  Mary's  comfort. 

"With  that  good  housekeeper  and  Miss  O'Grady  she'll  be 
best  off  alone,"  Reade  had  said,  when  Harriet  had  suggested 
that  she  herself  might  look  after  things.  "Let  her  sink  out 
of  sight,  for  a  time — it's  what  she  needs.  She's  not  to  see 
callers  or  smell  cut  flowers — or  sit  up  in  bed  and  write  let* 


TWO  RED  TULIPS  193 

ters.  I  sha'n't  be  surprised  if  she  gets  down  to  rock  bottom, 
physically  and  mentally,  before  she  begins  to  improve." 

His  prophecy  was  fulfilled.  When  she  had  been  lying  for 
two  days  in  the  quiet,  comfortable  room  Mary  was  more 
weary  of  mind  and  body  than  she  had  been  when  she  first 
gave  way.  When  she  had  lain  there  for  two  weeks  she  could 
hardly  lift  her  hand  to  her  head,  for  plain  lack  of  will  to  do  so. 
One  day  at  the  end  of  the  fourth  week,  however,  she  found 
voice  to  question  her  nurse,  out  of  a  long  silence. 

"Am  I  just — going  to  keep  on  going  down  and — down — till 
I  get  where  I — can't — come  up?  ...  Not  that  I — 
care." 

Rose  O'Grady  got  up  from  the  chair  by  the  window  where 
she  had  been  sewing  and  came  over  to  sit  on  the  foot  of 
Mary's  bed.  Mary's  eyes  rested  languidly  on  the  fresh, 
bright  face;  her  ears  listened  for  the  answer  to  her  despairing 
question. 

"When  you  get  round  to  wanting  to  come  up — you'll  come. 
Till  then — it  doesn't  matter.  It's  driving  yourself  enough 
you've  been  doing.  I'm  driving  now — and  when  it's  time  to 
turn  the  corner  I'll  know  it.  So  rest  easy." 

When  Mary  had  pondered  this  for  awhile  she  put  forth 
another  weak  effort.  "Did  you — or  anybody — write  Miss 
Warren?" 

"The  library  lady  that  lived  with  you?  Sure,  Professor 
Fenn  did.  And  had  the  answer.  She  would  come  if  you 
wanted  her.  He  wrote  her  you  wanted  nobody.  She's  a 
good  friend,  I  know — and  he  knows — but  there's  times  when 
good  friends  are  best  at  a  distance.  Coming  in  to  see  how 
you  look  this  morning — and  you  feeling  all  green  and  yallery 
and  not  wanting  to  have  'em  see  it!" 

"Am  I — green  and — yallery?" 

"The  saints  and  all!"  Miss  O'Grady  laughed  her  de- 
licious Irish  laugh.  "It's  getting  better  she  is — thinking 


H94  FOURSQUARE 

about  her  looks.  No,  Miss  Mary — it's  not  that  way  you're 
looking.  'Feeling' — I  said — not  'looking.'  As  for  looks — 
you  remind  me  of  a  candle  that's  had  the  flame  put  out  for  a 
bit,  but  the  wick's  there — and  we'll  light  it  again,  some  day. 
Meanwhile — you're  not  burning  it  at  the  two  ends  of  it — and 
in  the  middle." 

Mary  went  off  to  sleep  presently  on  this.  When  she  woke 
her  eyes  fell  upon  something  new  on  the  small  stand  near 
the  bed. 

While  she  slept  Rose  O'Grady  had  flung  her  red-lined  blue 
nurse's  cape  about  her  and  had  run  over  through  a  heavy 
snowstorm  to  Mark  Fenn's  study.  It  was  a  Saturday  after- 
noon and  she  found  him  hard  at  work  there. 
'  "You  told  me  to  let  you  know  when  you  should  send  her 
something  to  look  at.  A  big  box  of  flowers  came  this  morn- 
ing— but  I  put  them  downstairs.  The  sense  of  people  that'll 
send  white,  smelly  flowers  to  the  sick!  If  you  don't  do  better 
than  that,  it's  downstairs  your  gift'll  go!" 

He  had  done  better  than  that.  He  had  dropped  a  bundle 
of  mid-year  examination  papers  where  they  were,  put  on 
ulster  and  cap,  and  gone  out  into  a  blowy  late  January 
blizzard.  He  had  tramped  across  the  town  to  a  small  green- 
house, where  he  had  ranged  up  and  down  the  narrow  aisles 
between  rows  of  carnations  and  roses  to  find  something  to  his 
mind  to  send  Mary. 

"Haven't  you  anything  growing  except  these  big,  purple 
things?"  he  demanded.  "No  spring-looking  stuff,  yet?" 

"It's  two  weeks  too  early  for  daffies  and  tulips,"  the  small- 
town florist  explained,  with  an  injured  air.  "Everybody 
wants  carnations,  now.  A  nice  big  bunch  of  pink  ones,  say? 
Nothing  finer'n  them  'Daybreaks.' " 

"I  don't  want  cut  flowers  at  all.  Something  growing. 
There — what's  that?" 

Mark  leaned  past  a  row  of  the  despised  purple  ciner* 


TWO  RED  TULIPS  195 

arias  to  a  corner  where  a  group  of  tiny  pots  showed  tight- 
shut  green  pointed  tops  just  pushing  above  the  surface  of  the 
brown  earth.  "  What'll  that  be,  when  it's  up  ?"  he  questioned, 
reaching  a  long  arm  and  bringing  forth  the  pot  which  gave 
most  evidence  of  coming  growth. 

"It'll  be  a  couple  of  red  tulips.  You  don't  want  them,  do 
you  ?  Why,  they  don't  show  anything,  yet." 

"They  show  they're  alive.  Put  the  pot  up  for  me — will 
you?  Wrap  it  warmly,  please — it's  bitter  cold  outside." 

The  florist,  reflecting  bitterly  that  these  college  professors 
always  were  a  close-fisted  lot,  and  that  this  one,  buying  a 
thirty-cent  pot  of  nothingness  when  he  might  have  taken  a 
three-dollar  bunch  of  pink  carnations,  was  "the  limit," 
wrapped  a  wad  of  newspaper  around  the  small  purchase  and 
handed  it  over.  Unconscious  of  his  scorn,  Mark  went  along 
out,  sheltering  his  treasure  under  his  arm,  the  light  of  con- 
quest in  his  eye.  When,  presently,  he  delivered  it  to  Rose 
O'Grady,  he  received  high  approval  of  his  choice. 

"The  cleverness  of  you!  I  expected  you  back  with  some- 
thing two  feet  high,  with  the  blossoms  ready  to  fall.  This  bit 
thing  says — 'I'm  wakin'  up — how  about  you?'  It's  just  the 
thing.  I'll  put  it  where  her  eyes  '11  fall  on  it  when  she  opens 
them." 

"You  really  think  she'll  notice  it?" 

Rose  nodded,  her  nice  Irish  grin  cheering  his  heavy  heart. 

"An  hour  ago  she  wanted  to  know  how  she  was  looking. 
When  a  woman  does  that — keep  the  mirror  away  from  her,  if 
she's  been  sick,  and  tell  her  she  looks  like  a  peach.  It's  the 
shortest  road  to  recovery  I  know." 

Mark  laughed.  It  was  the  first  time  he  had  felt  like  laugh- 
ing for  four  long  weeks.  "Trust  you  to  know  the  shortest 
road,"  was  his  tribute.  "When  do  you  suppose  I  may  see 
her?" 

" Whist!"     She  shook  a  warning  finger  at  him.     "That's 


196  FOURSQUARE 

another  bag  o'  tricks.  Between  casting  an  eye  on  your  red 
tulips  and  laying  eyes  on  yourself — there's  a  good  bit  to  go. 
But  that's  no  reason  why  you  can't  keep  yourself  in  her  mind. 
Maybe  in  a  week  I'll  be  reading  aloud  to  her.  You  might 
find  us  the  book. — And  none  of  your  big  black  volumes  full 
of  wisdom.  Just  a  light  thing,  to  make  her  smile — if  you 
know  what  I  mean — and  I  doubt  if  you  do." 

"Trust  me.  I'm  not  such  a  sober  dog  as  that,  Miss 
O'Grady.  I'll  find  the  gayest  book  in  print." 

He  went  back  to  tell  Harriet  the  good  news. 

"She  asked  how  she  looked,"  she  repeated,  dubiously. 
"Is  that  supposed  to  be  such  a  good  symptom  ?  Why  should 
she  mind  how  she  looks  ? — Nobody  sees  her  except  the  doctor 
and  nurse." 

"Harriet,  it's  evident  you  belong  in  another  class  alto- 
gether. Your  best  gown  is — your  brown  silk,  isn't  it? 
Mary's  is — or  was — what  was  that  gauzy,  bright-coloured 
thing  she  wore  at  our  dinner?  She  looked  like  a  bird  of 
Paradise  in  it." 

"And  I — like  an  old  hen,  I  suppose.  You  mean — Mary 
cares  about  her  looks — and  I  don't.  I  hope  I  don't  disgrace 
you,  my  dear  brother." 

He  floundered  hopelessly  in  the  difficulties  he  had  evoked. 
"I  should  say  not.  You  always  look — very  nice,  Harry.  I 
suppose  the  nurse  means — she  recognizes  in  Mary — some- 
body who  likes  to  be  always  delightful  to  look  at — 

Harriet  walked  away.  "I'm  certainly  very  glad  Miss 
O'Grady  is  encouraged  about  her."  And  she  proved  her  glad- 
ness by  immediately  looking  out  fresh  tumblers  of  jelly  to  send 
over.  Harriet  had  already  nearly  bankrupted  her  own  stores 
of  whatever  could  be  imagined  tempting  to  the  patient's 
slight  and  capricious  appetite.  That  she  was  both  devoted 
to  Mary  for  her  own  sake  and  especially  tender  toward  her 
now  in  her  loss  was  evidenced  every  day. 


TWO  RED  TULIPS  197 

When  Dr.  Christopher  Reade  looked  in  on  his  patient,  that 
late  afternoon,  coming  upstairs  quietly  lest  she  be  sleeping, 
and  observing  her  from  the  doorway,  he  saw  her  lying  on  her 
side,  her  dark  eyes  open  and  fixed  upon  what  looked  from  a 
distance  to  be  an  empty  flower  pot.  As  he  stole  nearer,  how- 
ever, he  discovered  the  two  sturdy  little  green  heads  pushing 
themselves  above  the  brown  earth.  Across  the  room  Rose 
O'Grady  gave  him  a  signal  of  triumph. 

Mary's  face  was  still  very  white,  the  pallor  intensified  by 
its  framing  in  the  two  dark  braids  which  lay  on  either  side. 
But  she  had  propped  up  her  own  head  a  very  little  with  one 
hand  under  her  cheek,  and  there  was  a  suggestion  of  life  in  the 
intent  eyes.  As  the  doctor  came  finally  into  her  view  she 
looked  up,  smiled  a  faint  little  smile,  and  lifted  her  hand  with 
two  finger-tips  pointing  upward. 

"I  wonder  if  they — find  it  as  hard — to  struggle  up — as  I." 

The  doctor  came  close  and  bent  over  the  pot.  A  small 
electric  bedside  light,  shaded  from  Mary's  eyes,  focused  its 
rrys  on  the  two  little  green  heads. 

"They're  not  struggling  at  all.  Nature's  gently  pushing 
them  up.  When  she's  ready — she'll  push  you." 

Mary  shook  her  head.  "I'm  done.  I  can't — bloom — any 
more." 

He  sat  down  beside  her.  There  was  no  air  of  sympathy 
about  him.  His  face  was  gaunt  with  work  and  care,  his  eyes 
sharp;  not  even  his  voice  was  soft.  Yet  somehow  patients 
never  shrank  away  from  him — Rose  O'Grady  could  have 
testified  to  that. 

"That's  nonsense,  you  know,"  he  said.  "Sounds  like  the 
kind  of  thing  a  story-writer  would  say.  Very  pathetic — but 
it  doesn't  make  a  hard-headed  doctor  turn  a  hair. — How  old 
are  you?" 

"Twenty-eight." 

"Horrible! — No  wonder  you  feel  on  the  down-hill  side  of 


198  FOURSQUARE 

life.  I'm  thirty-nine.  It's  marvellous  that  I  can  still  hobble 
around." 

She  didn't  smile.     "I'm  talking  of  blooming." 

"So  am  I."  He  looked  around  at  the  nurse.  "Miss 
O'Grady,  what  are  these  two  green  things  going  to  be,  when 
they  declare  themselves?" 

"Tulips — Doctor.     So  Mr.  Fenn  said." 

"Fenn  sent  'em,  did  he?"  The  Doctor  glanced  quickly 
back  at  Mary.  "Good  therapeutics.  Well,  Miss  Mary,  the 
day  the  tulips  open  and  show  their  little  black  spikes  inside, 
you'll  be  sitting  up  in  a  chair  over  by  the  window  there.  And 
when  the  tulips  are  in  bloom  in  your  garden  outside  you'll 
be  racing  up  and  down  the  paths  picking  them — and 
offering  me  a  bunch  when  I  come  by,  to  remind  me  of  my 
prophecy." 

She  couldn't  believe  him.  But  somehow  with  each  day 
that  the  tulips  came  pushing  up  out  of  the  earth — and  they 
came  with  unbelievable  rapidity — Mary  found  herself  a  little 
stronger.  In  the  daytime  Rose  O'Grady  moved  her  bed 
over  by  a  window,  so  that  the  little  pot  needn't  be  defrauded 
of  the  light  and  sun. 

"I  thought  I  didn't  care  whether  I  got  well  or  not,"  Mary 
observed  one  morning,  while  Rose  was  brushing  and  braiding 
the  thick  strands  of  her  hair,  "but  I  admit  I  don't  want  to  be 
beaten  by  two  funny  little  tulips." 

"You'll  not  be  beaten.  The  two  weeks  that's  gone  by 
since  they  came  you've  done  as  well  as  they.  In  a  week  more 
they'll  be  blooming — and  so  will  you.  What  do  you  say  we 
get  you  a  red  gown  to  wear,  to  match  them?" 

Mary  laughed — the  first  spontaneous  laugh  that  had  come 
to  her  lips.  But  she  instantly  sobered.  "I'd  like  a  rosy- 
looking  thing  to  wear,"  she  admitted.  "But — why,  I'll  be 
wearing  mourning,  when  I  get  about." 

"Oh,  faith,  too — my  dear!    You  won't  be  that  foolish. 


TWO  RED  TULIPS  199 

The  little  aunt  wouldn't  ask  it  of  you — to  keep  yourself  cast 
down  in  the  black." 

"She  wore  mourning  herself — and  so  did  I — for  my  father 
and  mother." 

"Don't  do  it  now.  The  little  tulip  itself  wouldn't  bloom 
if  we  put  a  black  cloth  over  it.  And  a  creature  like  you — all 
made  up  of  feelings — 'twould  be  sheer  folly.  There's  plenty 
of  ways  of  showing  respect  to  the  dead  besides  burying  your- 
self along  with  them." 

It  was  impossible  not  to  listen  to  Rose  O'Grady,  when  in 
her  straightforward  way  she  called  anything  folly.  So  since 
it  was  much  easier  to  obey  her  than  to  combat  her,  Mary  let 
her  counsel  prevail.  When  the  day  came  that  she  walked, 
with  Rose's  arm  around  her,  from  the  bed  to  the  chair  in  the 
big,  sunny  window,  to  the  rendezvous  with  the  tulips,  now 
unfolding  their  gay  petals,  she  was  clad  in  a  marvellous  silken 
garment  of  a  shade  which,  though  paler  than  theirs,  yet 
blended  with  it.  With  Mary's  permission  Rose  had  sent  to  a 
distant  city  for  that  most  Parisian  looking  peignoir,  showing 
a  feminine  astuteness  beyond  praise.  No  woman  could  wear 
it  without  a  thrill  of  pleasure. 

"You  may  say  what  you  like — and  laugh  at  it  if  you're  that 
dull,"  Rose  O'Grady  had  said  to  Harriet  Fenn,  "but  there's 
something  about  a  pretty  thing  like  that  that  does  more  good 
than  medicine.  A  woman  needs  to  see  she's  not  lost  her  looks 
beyond  repair.  And  why  not?  She'll  need  them — and  she 
knows  it." 

"I  suppose  you're  right,"  Harriet  had  responded.  "I've 
never  had  anything  so  pretty  as  that,  but  I  can  see  what  you 
mean.  Do  you  think  Mary'll  recover  her  lost  ground — or 
will  she  always  be  rather  delicate,  now?" 

"She'll  be  stronger  than  ever — if  I  get  my  way  with  her," 
declared  Rose,  with  confidence.  "  I'll  be  teaching  her  to  take 
care  of  herself — which  she's  never  done.  Oh,  'twill  take 


200  FOURSQUARE 

i 

time — and  she's  just  a  lovely  wraith  of  a  creature  now — with 

her  nerves  that  unsteady — compared  with  mine!     But  when 

you  see  her  downstairs,  'tis  pleased  you'll  be." 

"It  seems  a  long  time  not  to  see  her,"  Harriet  said,  with  a 
sigh.  "I  suppose  the  doctor's  right,  though,  to  forbid  even 
us,  all  this  time." 

"Right  he  is.  She'd  enough  of  folks,  poor  girl,  to  last  her  a 
lifetime — even  such  folks  as  you  and  Mr.  Fenn.  Best  forget 
them — if  she  could.  She'd  a  hard  time  doing  that,  as  it  was. 
The  day'll  come  when  she'll  be  crazy  to  see  you — and  then 
you'll  be  good  for  her." 

The  day  did  come.  Two  weeks  after  that  first  sitting  in  the 
window  upstairs  Dr.  Christopher  Reade  gave  Mary  his  arm 
and  let  her  walk  slowly  down  to  the  familiar  big,  square 
living-room,  across  the  wide  hall  from  the  drawing-room. 
Rose  CXGrady  had  run  down  ahead. 

"That's  right — come  in  and  be  here,  to  make  the  place 
seem  more  homelike,"  she  had  whispered,  to  Harriet  and 
Mark,  whom  she  found  waiting  in  the  lower  hall,  their  hands 
full  of  gay  yellow  daffodils.  "Take  your  things  off — and  sit 
down  by  the  fire — so  you'll  look  to  belong  here,  as  you  do.  I 
don't  know  who  has  a  better  right  to  welcome  her  down." 

So  when  Mary  paused  in  the  doorway,  her  brows  a  little 
drawn  in  the  effort  not  to  give  way  to  the  thought  that  she 
shouldn't  find  the  familiar,  beloved  figure  at  the  desk  in  the 
corner,  her  gaze  met  these  two  other  figures  who  seemed 
hardly  less  to  "belong"  here.  And  never,  in  her  life,  had  two 
people  looked  to  her  so  like  the  best  friends  she  had  in  the 
world. 

"Oh,  you  dears!"  she  said,  under  her  breath,  and  dropping 
the  doctor's  arm,  held  out  both  hands  to  them. 

As  they  came  across  to  her,  both  were  thinking  how  little 
she  looked  as  if  she  had  been  ill.  The  long  rest,  the  freedom 
from  rush  and  strain,  the  clever  nursing,  the  skillful,  scientific 


TWO  RED  TULIPS  201 

feeding — all  had  had  part  in  what  seemed  an  amazing  re- 
covery. There  was  a  tinge  of  colour  in  her  cheeks,  her  eyes 
were  bright  and  clear.  Everything  about  her  was  in  distinct 
contrast  to  the  picture  of  intense  fatigue  and  tension  she  had 
presented  on  her  home-coming,  almost  eight  weeks  ago.  She 
had  even  gained  in  weight,  as  such  patients  do.  In  contrast 
to  the  sturdy  likeness  of  health  of  Rose  O'Grady,  Mary  was 
as  a  soft-tinted  pastel  drawing  beside  a  portrait  done  in  warm 
oils.  Yet  even  so  there  was  something  approaching  vivid- 
ness about  her — the  darkness  of  her  heavy  hair  and  her  eyes, 
the  flash  of  her  white  teeth  as  she  smiled  at  them,  the  normal 
rich  colouring  of  her  lips. 

"Now  we  know  you're  real,"  said  Harriet  Fenn,  holding  her 
close  for  an  instant,  then  drawing  ofF  to  look  at  her.  "We 
began  to  feel  they  were  deceiving  us,  and  you  weren't  upstairs 
after  all!" 

"I've  known  you  were  real,"  Mark  assured  her,  grasping 
both  her  hands,  then  drawing  her  with  him  to  the  great  couch 
before  the  fire.  "You  see,  I  had  such  confidence  in  Dr. 
Reade  and  Miss  O'Grady,  I  knew  they'd  make  a  new  woman 
of  you.  And  so  they  have." 

"There  never  was  such  a  doctor — nor  such  a  nurse."  Mary 
smiled  up  at  them  as  they  stood  together  on  the  hearth-rug, 
looking  down  at  her.  "It  was  a  case  of  just  having  to  get 
well  because  they  said  I  must.  There's  no  such  thing  as  dis- 
obeying either  of  them." 

"Now — now — think  of  the  eggs  I've  had  to  dress  up  in  all 
sorts  of  pretty  clothes,  to  make  you  look  at  them  at  all,  at  all. 
And  the  Doctor — the  times  he's  altered  his  treatment,  to  fit 
the  case!" 

"Rose  O'Grady — don't  tell  me  the  Doctor  ever  altered  his 
treatment  to  fit  me.  He's  altered  me — to  fit  the  treatment!'* 

"She's  getting  well!"  Mark  declared.  "That  spark  was 
indubitable  evidence  of  the  old  fire." 


202  FOURSQUARE 

"You  started  her  on  the  track,  Mr.  Fenn,"  Rose 
told  him,  with  her  Irish   smile.     "You  and  the  two  bit 
tulips." 

Well,  it  was  delightful  to  be  with  them  again.  After  a 
little,  doctor  and  nurse  took  themselves  away,  and  Mary  was 
left  with  her  two  friends.  There  was  no  sadness  about  the 
meeting,  though  the  memory  of  Miss  Graham  was  with  them 
all.  Somehow,  it  seemed  to  the  Fenns,  Mary,  in  spite  of  all 
her  remaining  weakness  and  frailty,  had  become  already  the 
young  mistress  of  the  place. 

"I  shall  stay  for  a  long  time,  I  think,"  she  said — and  she 
seemed  to  say  it  contentedly.  "Miss  O'Grady's  going  to 
stay  with  me,  and  when  I  don't  need  her  any  more  as  a 
nurse  she'll  take  day  work  for  Dr.  Reade,  but  still  live  with 
me.  Harriet,  do  you  know  one  of  the  best  things  that  ever 
happened  to  me  is  the  getting  to  know  Rose  C^Grady  ?  She's 
just  the  sanest,  jolliest  company  in  the  world — and  she's  most 
awfully  good  for  me." 

"She  must  be  good  for  you,  if  she's  brought  you  to  settle 
down  quietly  in  the  old  place,"  said  Harriet,  with  an  odd 
look. 

"She  has — if  only  because  in  that  way  I  can  keep  her  with 
me.  I  can't  quite  explain  why  I  like  her  so — unless — it's 
because  of  her  authority  over  me.  My  friend  Alexandra 
Warren  used  to  advise  me,  lecture  me,  do  her  best  to  keep  me 
in  order — and  I  used  to  slip  through  her  fingers.  But  Rose 
CKGrady  comes  along  and  tells  me  to  stop  mooning  and  take 
up  my  knitting — and — if  you'll  believe  me,  I  actually  take  it 
up.  And" — as  the  others  laughed — "that's  only  partly 
because  she's  a  nurse.  Maybe  you  don't  know  how  I  hate 
knitting.  But  I  do  it — to  please  Rose." 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mark  Fenn,  with  a  keen  glance,  "if  you 
ever  did  much  of  anything,  just  because  somebody  advised  it 
— if  you  didn't  happen  to  want  to  do  it." 


TWO  RED  TULIPS  203 

Mary's  eyes  dropped  before  his.  "I'm  afraid  not.  You 
have  me  there." 

"Then — since  you've  reformed,  through  Miss  O'Grady's 
influence — will  you  do  something  to  please  me?" 

"If  I  can,"  she  promised  promptly.  "I'd  do  anything  to 
please  anybody,  to-day,  it's  so  wonderful  to  be  getting  well." 

"Then  say  that  the  first  time  you're  allowed  to  go  out  for 
a  drive,  you'll  let  me  take  you.  If  you  don't  promise  me 
that,  I'll  see  you  going  off  with  the  Doctor,  some  day,  without 
any  warning.  That  would  be — rather  more  than  I  could 
bear." 

Mary  looked  at  him  a  little  curiously. 

"Why,  of  course  you  may,"  she  said,  "though  I  can't 
imagine  why  you  should  mind  if  the  Doctor  happened  to  come 
along  some  day  and  take  me  in,  out  of  the  goodness  of  his 
heart." 

"You've  had  enough  of  the  goodness  of  his  heart.  I'd  like 
to  show  you  what  mine  will  do  for  you.  I  can't  manage  a 
comfortable  car,  like  his;  but  I  can  find  an  easy  phaeton  and  a 
pretty  decent  horse.  Would  that  be  too  great  a  descent  for 
you?  To-morrow's  the  first  of  March — we're  likely  to  have 
some  warm  and  sunny  days  any  time.  Come — put  your 
pride  in  your  pocket  and  say  you  will." 

She  agreed  readily,  though  an  image  of  herself  and  Mark 
Fenn  driving  down  the  village  street  in  some  shaky  "livery" 
vehicle  behind  a  decrepit  horse  produced  an  inward  mirth 
which  she  was  at  some  difficulty  to  conceal.  But  she  had 
plenty  of  time  in  which  to  adjust  herself  to  the  prospect. 
The  first  month  of  spring  came  in  like  a  lion,  with  a  furious 
storm,  which  raged  for  a  week.  It  took  a  fortnight  for  the 
heavy  snowfall  of  that  week  to  melt  slowly  away,  and  the  last 
week  of  the  month  had  begun  when  finally  the  lion  turned 
lamb.  Meanwhile  Mary  had  been  taken  out  every  day  upon 
the  broad  rear  porch,  to  pace  up  and  down  on  Rose's  arm,  and 


204  FOURSQUARE 

by  the  time  the  mild  weather  arrived  she  was  ready  in  both 
body  and  spirit  for  whatever  adventure  might  beckon. 

"The  chariot's  at  the  door,  Miss  Mary — and  the  chariot- 
eer says  will  you  bring  an  extra  wrap?  By  the  look  of  him 
he's  the  one  that's  taking  his  first  drive! — Best  wear  the  fur 
coat  and  the  little  aunt's  fur-lined  boots — then  it  won't 
matter  if  he  takes  you  straight  on  till  sunset." 

"Furs?    Oh,  not  this  lovely,  sunny  day!" 

"This  lovely  sunny  day  is  a  March  day,  and  don't  be 
forgetting  it.  It's  in  furs  that  you  go — or  you  stay — 
see?" 

As  usual  Mary  yielded,  though  she  murmured,  "I  won't 
have  any  will  or  initiative  left,  Rosie  O'Grady,  if  I  keep  you 
around  much  longer." 

"You  may  have  a  good  stock  of  common  sense — and  that'll 
do  you  very  well  instead.  There,  go  along — and  you  never 
looked  prettier,  if  I  do  say  it,  that  didn't  know  you  before  th« 
war.  If  I  had  a  squirrel  coat  with  a  cut  like  that  one,  and  a 
little  jewel  of  a  hat  that  looks  as  if  it  came  straight  from 
France " 

"It  did." 

" — and  a  face  like  that  under  it — ah,  don't  look  that 
saucy  at  me — and  had  a  man  like  Professor  Fenn  waiting  at 
the  door — with  a  wheelbarrow — I'd  go  down  and  tuck  myself 
in,  and  be  proud  and  thankful  as  he  wheeled  me  away." 

"You  wouldn't  mind  being  in  the  only  vehicle  on  the  street 
that  wasn't  motor-driven — and  all  the  small  boys  gazing  at 
the  combination?" 

"I'd  mind  nothing — except  that  the  finest  and  best  man  I 
ever  knew — barring  one — and  he  was  a  priest  and  took  no 
girl  for  a  ride — was  doing  me  the  honour  of  taking  me  out." 

Mary  laughed,  and  ran  downstairs  without  so  much  as  a 
hand  on  the  rail.  She  found  Mark  waiting  at  the  foot,  his 
face  very  bright- 


TWO  RED  TULIPS  205 

"It's  good  to  see  you  come  down  like  that,"  he  said.  "How 
well  you  look!" 

"Who  wouldn't  look  well — at  the  idea  of  going  to  drive 
again!" 

"How  long  is  it,"  he  asked,  as  they  went  to  the  porch  end, 
where  stood  the  horse  and  phaeton  of  the  village  livery, 
"since  you  went  to  drive  behind  four  iron-shod  heels?" 

"Not  so  long  that  I've  forgotten  how  pleasant  it  is.  And 
I  want  you  to  know  that  I've  three  times  refused  the  Doctor, 
according  to  my  promise." 

"You  should  have  a  better  reward  for  that  than  I  can  give 
you.  Confound  him — I  suppose  you  wanted  to  go?" 

"I'd  have  gone  with  the  grocer's  boy,  on  his  delivery 
wagon,  any  time  this  last  fortnight! — Oh,  how  wonderful  this 
air  is!  Which  way  do  we  go?" 

"Would  you  like  it  better  if  we  avoided  going  through  the 
town  ?  We  can  take  the  road  this  way.  But  of  course  the 
one  I'd  like  to  take  is  the  one  out  through  the  hills — and  we 
can't  get  to  that  without " 

She  turned  to  smile  at  him.     He  had  tucked  her  in  warmly. 

"Do  you  really  think,  Mark  Fenn,"  she  demanded  gaily, 
"that  I  mind  driving  through  the  town  with  you,  just  because 
we  aren't  in  a  ninety-horse-power  Rolls-Royce?  Why,  Rose 
O'Grady  said  I'd  be  lucky  if  you  took  me  in  a  wheelbarrow! 
Come  along  to  the  hills.  Of  course  I  want  that  road.  There 
might  be  some  pussy-willows  out  that  way." 

Now,  indeed,  he  was  content.  If  she  really  didn't  mind — 
and  he  saw  no  signs  of  it  as  the  tall  livery  horse  clip-clopped 
down  the  paved  street,  through  the  town,  and  out  upon  the 
main  road,  which  being  a  highway  of  the  state  knew  not  the 
March  mud  of  the  country  roads — he  needn't  mind  either. 
It  was  a  fact  that  he  had  never  felt  quite  so  keenly  the 
limitations  of  a  professor's  salary  as  when,  starting  out  to 
engage  his  equipage,  he  passed  Dr.  Reade's  slim,  trim 


206  FOURSQUARE 

roadster  standing  at  a  curb.  But  now,  with  Mary  beside 
him,  and  the  hills  and  valleys  of  the  countryside  show- 
ing ahead,  the  spring  sunshine  warm  upon  the  bare  trees 
and  rocks,  he  asked  no  odds  of  anybody. 

As  they  had  gone  through  the  village  square  and  turned 
south  they  had  been  passed  by  one  of  the  few  village  taxicabs 
bearing  a  traveller  just  off  the  train.  But  John  Kirkwood 
hadn't  noted  the  occupants  of  the  phaeton,  and  if  he  had  he 
could  hardly  have  leaped  out  and  halted  them.  So  it  was 
with  anticipation  undimmed  that  the  editor  was  borne  up  the 
long  hill,  in  at  the  white  gates,  and  brought  up  to  the  tall 
pillared  porch  of  the  old  Graham  house.  As  he  got  out  he 
glanced  across  the  snowy  lawn  to  see  if  the  small  brown  house 
were  still  next  door.  Somehow  he  had  never  enjoyed  the 
thought  of  that  small  brown  house.  He  had  never  been  in 
Newcomb  in  the  winter  before,  and  he  noted  with  some  satis- 
faction that  now,  stripped  of  its  vines,  its  softening  shrubbery 
bare,  it  looked  smaller  and  shabbier  than  ever — a  poor  little 
house  indeed  in  comparison  with  the  stately  residence  next 
door.  What,  really,  he  wondered,  should  the  two  homes 
have  in  common  ? 


CHAPTER  XIII 

CHECK! 


OSE  O'GRADY,  coming  into  the 
house  from  a.  swift  walk  to  and  from 
Dr.  Christopher  Reade's  office,  was 
met  in  the  hall  by  Eliza. 

"There's  a  gentleman  here  to  see 
Miss  Mary,"  the  housekeeper  whis^ 
pered.  "He  would  wait,  though  I 
told  him  she  might  be  away  all  after- 
noon. Maybe  you'd  better  see  him. 
His  card's  on  the  table  there." 

Rose  nodded.  She  noted  upon  the 
rack  an  overcoat  and  hat  of  quality, 
and  upon  the  table  beside  it  a  fine 
leather  brief  case,  a  florist's  box,  a 
handsome  malacca  stick,  and  the  call- 
ing card.  "Mr.  John  Kirkzvood,"  she 
read.  Without  pausing  to  remove 
her  hat  or  the  red-lined  blue  cape 
which  signified  her  profession,  she 
looked  in  upon  the  caller  composedly 
seated  on  the  high-backed  davenport 
before  the  drawing-room  fire,  a  book 
in  his  hand.  He  rose  at  the  sound  of 
her  soft  step,  and  even  as  he  stood 
courteously  waiting  and  before  he 
spoke,  she  had  recognized  his  type. 

"Mr.    Kirkwood?     I'm    Mis? 

207 


208  FOURSQUARE 

O'Grady,  Miss  Fletcher's  nurse.  I  hope  you're  quite  com* 
fortable.  It  may  be  an  hour  or  two  before  Miss  Fletcher's 
back." 

"Thank  you."  He  regarded  her  with  interest.  Most 
men  did,  though  Rose  O'Grady's  attitude  toward  them  was 
of  the  most  business-like. 

"She  wasn't  expecting  you,  I  think?" 

"I  thought  I'd  take  her  by  surprise,  hoping  it  might  be 
a  pleasant  one.  I  knew  she  had  been  ill,  but  understood  that 
she  had  recovered.  In  case,  however,  that  she  shouldn't 
yet  feel  equal  to  seeing  me  I  thought  I  wouldn't  force  myself 
upon  her  with  a  wire.  Won't  you  tell  me  about  her?  Is  she 
really  quite  well  again?  I  judge  so,  from  her  being  out  for 
the  afternoon." 

"She  is  quite  well — but  of  course  she  hasn't  her  strength 
fully  back.  I'm  afraid,  Mr.  Kirkwood,  I  shall  have  to  take 
charge  of  her  when  she  comes  in.  It  might  be  as  well  for  you 
to  call  to-morrow." 

He  smiled.  "Very  well — if  you  insist.  But  I'm  hoping 
you'll  relent  enough  to  let  me  see  her  for  at  least  a  few 
minutes  when  she  comes  in.  Surely,  if  she's  having  her  first 
drive,  as  the — housekeeper? — said,  she's  in  the  most  com- 
fortable motor  to  be  had  and  won't  be  over  tired?" 

"In  the  most  comfortable  motor  to  be  had,  she  would  still 
be  tired  and  would  need  rest."  Rose  had  remained  standing, 
studying  him.  He  couldn't  sit  down  again  till  she  did — or 
till  she  left  the  room,  so  the  two  had  somewhat  the  attitude 
of  challenge  as  they  faced  each  other  across  the  hearth-rug. 

He  tried  again,  in  his  pleasantest  manner,  which  yet  held 
a  touch  of  authority — to  match  hers.  He  was  not  to  be 
disposed  of  so  easily. 

"Miss  Fletcher  and  I  are  old  friends — perhaps  you  don't 
know.  I  can't  imagine  she  would  send  me  away  without  a 
glimpse  of  her  to-night.  Won't  you  please  not  look  at  me  so 


CHECK!  209 

sternly?  And  couldn't  I  prevail  upon  you  to  sit  down  for  a 
little,  and  tell  me  a  few  things  I'm  most  anxious  to  know?  1 
knew  Miss  Graham — I  have  heard  very  little  of  her  most 
untimely  passing. — Please?" 

Miss  O'Grady  sat  down — but  not  upon  the  davenport 
beside  him,  as  his  gesture  had  invited.  She  took  a  straight- 
backed  old  Sheraton  chair  beside  the  fireplace,  removed  her 
hat  and  laid  it  on  the  table,  but  retained  her  red-lined  cape. 
She  told  him,  in  a  few  words  and  restrainedly,  of  Miss  Gra- 
ham. Mary  Fletcher  herself,  had  she  seen  Rose  in  the  pres- 
ent situation,  would  have  been  amazed  at  the  dignity  of  her. 
She  was  showing  Mr.  John  Kirkwood  a  side  Mary  had  not 
so  much  as  guessed  at.  It  was  the  young  woman  who  was 
accustomed  to  the  entire  command  of  whole  hospital  staffs 
whom  the  editor  was  now  encountering.  And  when  he 
would  have  worked  the  decidedly  formal  conversation  round 
to  Mary  herself,  he  found  himself  in  difficult  waters. 

"You  must  have  enjoyed  intimate  contact  with  so  inter- 
esting and  charming  a  person,  Miss  O'Grady.  You  have 
met  many  people  in  the  course  of  your  training  and  expe- 
rience. There  are  none  quite  like  Miss  Fletcher." 

"The  world  is  full  of  people,  Mr.  Kirkwood.  It's  not 
myself  would  say  there  were  no  two  alike." 

"But  surely  none  her  equal?" 

"I've  known  her  as  a  nurse.  I'm  not  qualified  to  speak 
of  her  as  yourself." 

Mr.  Kirkwood  leaned  back.  He  had  walked  up  several  of 
these  blind  alleys.  He  now  got  up  and  paced  once  or  twice 
up  and  down  the  room,  pausing  before  various  articles  of 
antique  furnishing.  He  glanced  with  an  air  of  appreciation 
at  several  of  the  old  family  portraits  upon  the  walls. 

"This  looks  like  a  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds,"  he  said,  of  one 
dark-eyed  lad  playing  upon  the  floor. 

"It  is  that.     The  portraits  are  all  his — or  Sargent's," 


2io  FOURSQUARE 

He  turned  back  to  the  young  woman  in  the  straight-backed 
chair.  "With  that  hair  and  those  eyes,"  he  was  thinking, 
"I'll  be  hanged  if  I  won't  strike  a  spark  out  of  you."  And 
he  said,  taking  his  seat  again:  "I  seem  to  recall  a — Professor 
Fenn  who  lives  next  door.  His  sister  lives  with  him,  I  be- 
lieve. I  wonder  if  I  might  have  a  word  with  him,  if  I  went 
over." 

"You  might  try.  If  he's  not  in,  no  doubt  you'll  find  it  a 
pleasant  place  to  wait  in." 

And  now  he  laughed.  "Miss  O'Grady!  What  have  you 
against  me?  Are  you  always  so  cautious  about  your  pa- 
tients? I'll  wager  Professor  Fenn  has  Miss  Fletcher  out 
with  him — the  lucky  dog!  You'll  not  deny  it?" 

"They're  just  coming  in,  by  the  sound — so  I'll  have  to 
deny  nothing." 

"By  the  sound!"  And,  truly,  the  slow  clip-clop,  clip-clop 
of  the  shod  hoofs  upon  the  macadam  of  the  driveway  was 
shouting  to  his  town-bred  ears  the  amazing  fact.  He  stared 
at  Rose  O'Grady  with  incredulous  eyes,  but  an  instant  later 
his  low  laugh  turned  her  angry — a  state  she  had  been  near 
all  along,  but  fell  into  now  with  reason.  For  in  his  delighted 
mirth  Kirkwood  couldn't  restrain  his  speech. 

"Ye  gods,  don't  tell  me  he's  had  her  out  in  a  carriage — 
with  a  horse.  A  horse  and  buggy — that's  what  they  call  it! 
The  country  college  professor!  No  wonder  you  thought 
she'd  be  tired!" 

But  he  ceased  to  laugh  long  before  the  sound  of  scraping 
wheels  heralded  the  arrival  of  the  vehicle  at  the  porch.  Miss 
O'Grady  had  risen  with  fire  in  her  Irish  eyes  such  as  imperti- 
nent orderlies  and  soldier  details  had  known  well  in  days 
gone  by — not  to  mention  members  of  the  staff  who  showed 
themselves  less  fine  of  grain  than  the  superintendent  judged 
seemly.  Unquestionably  he  had  struck  the  spark. 

"Up  here  in  the  small  town,"  she  said,  "'tis  not  by  the 


CHECK!  211 

size  of  the  tires  on  his  car  that  we  judge  the  man  who  gives 
a  lady  a  pleasure.  I've  never  seen  Miss  Fletcher  so  happy 
as  when  she  set  foot  on  the  little  step  of  the  phaeton  Pro- 
fessor Fenn  took  her  in.  If  you  can  bring  a  light  like  that 
to  the  eyes  of  her — you  have  my  leave  to  make  her  the  pret- 
tiest speech  in  your  power.  And  being  an  editor — you  should 
have  a  fine  command  of  language." 

It  took  but  an  instant  to  make  his  apology — and  probably 
in  all  his  experience  John  Kirkwood  had  never  made  a  sincerer 
one.  He  made  it  in  rapid,  low  words  which  would  have 
disarmed  almost  any  woman  as  quick  and  keen  at  reading 
the  hearts  and  minds  of  men  as  Rose  O'Grady.  He  took 
a  step  toward  her,  and  now  his  face  was  grave  and  his  tone 
full  of  both  respect  and  contrition. 

"I'm  thoroughly  ashamed  of  myself,"  he  said.  "The 
sound  of  the  horse's  hoofs  took  me  back  to  my  boyhood,  that 
was  all.  I  was  born  in  the  country,  and  I  remember  when  it 
was  the  height  of  my  ambition  to  take  a  girl  out  in  just  that 
way.  Please  forgive  me.  I'm  only  thankful  your  charge  is 
well  enough  to  take  her  first  drive,  after  any  fashion." 

Whether  forgiven  or  not,  he  had  eyes  no  longer  for  the 
Irish  nurse.  The  next  instant  Mary  Fletcher  herself  stood 
in  the  doorway,  and  John  Kirkwood  was  staring  at  her  as  he 
came  forward  with  unbelieving  eyes.  It  was  small  wonder, 
considering  the  way  he  had  seen  her  last,  and  the  image  he 
had  kept  of  her,  pale,  thin,  worn — and  so  desperately  un- 
happy that  her  eyes  for  a  night  and  a  day  after  her  departure 
had  haunted  him. 

In  the  luxurious  coat  of  gray  squirrel,  with  the  little  hat 
Rose  had  been  so  sure  was  from  Paris  on  her  brown  hair,  her 
eyes  sparkling  with  the  delight  of  the  long  afternoon,  just 
tired  enough  to  be  willing  to  sleep  but  not  yet  ready,  Mary 
was  a  new  creature.  It  had  grown  almost  dark  outside — the 
lights  were  on  in  the  house,  and  in  the  radiance  from  them 


212  FOURSQUARE 

she  stood  revealed.  And  the  chief  thing  John  Kirkwood 
noted,  in  that  first  glance,  was  not  so  much  that  her  face  was 
full  of  a  delicate  fresh  colour,  the  cheeks  round  again  as  in 
health,  as  that  the  aspect  of  her  was  one  of  happiness  and 
content.  Content — and  happy — and  she  had  just  come 
from  an  all  afternoon  drive  with  a  "country  college  profes- 
sor," behind  a  horse  whose  hoofs  were  shod  not  with  rubber 
but  with  iron!  .  .  .  And  at  sight  of  the  visitor — the 
light  in  her  face  went  out  as  if  a  veil  had  been  thrown  over  it. 

The  worst  of  it  was,  really,  that  the  college  professor  stood 
just  behind  her,  in  the  hall,  having  brought  her  in  as  if  he 
hadn't  been  with  her  enough  for  one  day  and  couldn't  leave 
her  at  the  door.  Stood  there  with  as  much  assurance  as  if  he 
had  just  helped  her  out  of  an  expensive,  high-powered  motor. 
He  was  looking  across  at  Kirkwood  himself  with  an  air  of — 
well — it  was  mighty  like  proprietorship,  the  editor  thought. 
At  any  rate,  it  struck  him  as  the  glance  of  one  who  was  on 
the  ground  at  the  man  who  wasn't  quite  so  sure  of  his  status. 

Kirkwood  didn't  get  his  visit  with  Mary  that  evening.  The 
odds  were  against  him,  for  as  luck  would  have  it  a  third  man 
almost  instantly  appeared  on  the  scene.  Dr.  Christopher 
Reade  had  happened  by,  had  seen  the  livery  outfit  standing 
at  the  side  of  the  porch,  had  decided  that  his  patient  had 
been  taken  for  her  first  drive — and  a  long  drive  it  must  have 
been  not  to  have  ended  before  dark — and  had  dropped  in  to 
see  how  she  stood  it.  He  greeted  everybody  rather  curtly, 
walked  over  to  Mary,  scanned  her  face,  felt  her  pulse,  nodded 
and  observed  in  his  most  uncompromising  tone: 

"All  very  fine — but  the  place  for  you  now  is  flat  on  your 
back,  resting.  If  these  gentlemen  will  excuse  you" — he 
didn't  exactly  glower  at  them,  but  he  might  as  well,  after 
the  manner  of  a  profession  privileged  to  glower — "I'll  be 
pleased  to  see  you  going  up  those  stairs." 

So  Mary  went,  lingering  only  to  say  a  few  courteous  words 


CHECK!  213 

in  disposal  of  her  latest  guest,  making  an  appointment  to  see 
him  in  the  morning.  When  this  was  done,  she  glanced  at 
Fenn,  and  he  thought  he  read  the  meaning  of  the  glance.  At 
all  events  he  promptly  invited  Mr.  John  Kirkwood  to  come 
home  with  him.  The  three  men  went  out  together,  the  in- 
vitation having  been  as  promptly  accepted. 

"I  find  myself  envying  you,  Dr.  Reade,"  declared 
Kirkwood,  on  the  porch  outside.  "To  be  able  to  dispose  of  a 
situation  as  easily  as  that  by  merely  issuing  a  command — 
well — your  profession  has  us  all  in  its  hands.  I've  always 
thought  so  and  to-night  I  know  it." 

The  doctor  turned  upon  him.  "I  should  like  that  to  be 
true,  Mr.  Kirkwood,  for  I've  a  word  to  say  to  you.  I  hope 
you  haven't  come  to  press  the  claims  of  your  editorial 
office  on  Miss  Fletcher.  I've  absolutely  forbidden  her  to 
think  of  work  for  months  to  come." 

"Yes?  Nobody  could  be  more  unwilling  than  I  to  urge 
Miss  Fletcher  to  work  before  she's  able.  But  it  struck  me — 
doubtless  due  to  your  own  excellent  care  and  skill — that  in 
all  the  years  I've  known  her  I've  never  seen  her  look  so  well 
as  she  does  to-night.  And,  as  I  understand  it,  she  has  found 
a  long  drive  under — not  the  easiest  conditions — not  too 
tiring.  Surely  you  can't  still  be  anxious  about  her?" 

"I  shall  be  anxious  about  her,"  replied  the  doctor — and 
now  his  tone  was  very  nearly  gruff— "till  harps  are  no  longer 
treated  like  bass  drums  by  most  of  those  who  play  on  them. 
And  as  that  day  isn't  likely  to  arrive  soon,  I  take  the  precau- 
tion of  putting  the  harp  on  the  shelf  for  to-night.  When  you 
try  to  play  on  it  to-morrow  morning,  Mr.  Kirkwood,  be  sure 
you  don't  take  it  for  a  drum.  Because  it  isn't  one — and 
never  will  be." 

The  doctor  got  into  his  car,  threw  in  his  gears  with  a  crash, 
and  was  off  down  the  street.  Mark  Fenn  led  his  guest  across 
the  sodden  lawn  toward  his  own  house. 


214  FOURSQUARE 

"  Pardon  me — have  you  forgotten  ? — Don't  let  me  interfere 
with  your  looking  after  your  horse."  The  editor's  tone  was 
the  perfection  of  civility — the  civility  born  of  intense  irrita- 
tion. A  fine  lot  they  were,  up  here  in  the  small  college  town, 
taking  him  in  charge  as  if  he  were  a  package  that  had  come  by 
parcels  post.  Nurse,  doctor,  and  college  professor — each 
had  had  a  part  in  disposing  of  him.  If  he  hadn't  been  so 
curious  as  to  the  personality  of  Fenn  himself  he  would  have 
betaken  himself  back  to  his  hotel,  to  spend  the  evening  as  he 
pleased. 

"No — they'll  be  up  after  him  in  a  few  minutes.  This  way, 
Mr.  Kirkwood — there's  a  gap  in  the  hedge  just  here." 

Fenn  led  him  into  the  small  house,  and  presented  him 
to  his  sister  Harriet — who  seemed  not  at  all  disturbed  by 
his  presence,  though  he  expected  her  presently  to  lay  strict 
injunctions  upon  him  concerning  Mary  Fletcher.  Fenn 
played,  with  a  certain  reserve,  the  friendly  host  throughout 
the  simple  but  exceedingly  appetizing  dinner  which  was 
immediately  served.  Afterward  Kirkwood  found  himself 
made  comfortable  in  Fenn's  shabby  armchair,  amidst  the 
walls  of  books  which  to  the  editor's  eye  proclaimed  the 
scholar's  library  and  demanded  his  respect.  Also,  he  was 
offered  a  pouch  of  excellent  tobacco. 

"I'm  sorry  I've  no  cigars — but  I  can  find  you  a  clean  old 
pipe,  if  you  haven't  one  in  your  pocket." 

"I  have — never  am  without  it."  And  the  guest  produced 
from  his  overcoat  an  English  briarwood,  well  coloured. 

For  a  time  the  conversation  ranged  over  various  general 
subjects,  but  with  the  second  filling  of  his  pipe  Kirkwood 
broke  out  abruptly: 

"I'm  rather  curious  to  know,  Professor  Fenn,  what  I'm 
hoping  you'll  do  me  the  favour  of  telling  me.  From  the 
moment  I  arrived  at  the  delightful  home  over  there,  with  its 
— outward — air  of  hospitality,  I  was  made  to  feel  that  I  was 


CHECK!.  215 

looked  upon  with — well — it  came  to  feel  strangely  like 
suspicion.  The  housekeeper  let  me  in  with  hesitation,  Miss 
(yGrady  treated  me  as  if  at  any  move  of  mine  she  might  call 
the  dog,  Dr.  Reade  laid  his  professional  embargo  upon  me. 
As  for  yourself " — he  smiled  across  disarmingly  for  an 
instant  upon  his  companion,  then  resumed  his  look  of  intent 
gravity — "though  you  have  shown  me  every  kindness,  I 
seem  to  feel  it  in  the  air — that  you,  too,  are  mounting  guard. 
And  yet — I'm  an  old  friend  of  Miss  Fletcher's.  I  can't  help 
wondering  what  I've  done — or  what  I'm  considered  likely  to 
do,  that  I  must  be  regarded  as  an  interloper  instead  of  a 
friend.  Won't  you,  as  a  further  kindness,  be  perfectly 
frank  with  me?" 

He  looked  steadily  at  Mark  Fenn,  who  gave  him  back  his 
look  as  steadily.  It  was  a  full  minute  before  the  latter  spoke. 

"I  would  very  much  rather  not  discuss  it,"  Fenn  said, 
slowly.  "  But  I  suppose  that  wouldn't  be  altogether  fair  to 
you.  So  I'll  say  to  you  that  the  truth  of  the  matter  is  it's 
impossible  for  us  all  not  to  feel  that  you  were  more  or  less 
responsible  for  Miss  Fletcher's  break-down.  She  was  in 
what  we  saw  was  a  very  ragged  state  when  she  came  home — 
the  cause  of  which  seemed  to  be  not  only  a  long  period  of 
over-work  but  also  a  peculiar  condition  of  over-tension. 
During  the  first  week  of  her  illness  she  wasn't  altogether 
herself.  I  believe  the  nurse  gathered  certain  facts  which 
led  her  to  assume  that  her  patient  had  suffered  some  sort 
of  nervous  shock  which  might  have  been  avoided — and — 
should  have  been  avoided  by  one  who  had  her  welfare  at 
heart.  We  have  by  no  means  the  full  explanation,  but  you 
can  hardly  be  surprised  if  we  seem — as  you  suggest — 
rather  on  our  guard." 

Kirkwood  laid  down  his  pipe.  This  situation  was  more 
serious  than  he  had  thought.  He  hadn't  imagined  it,  then — 
they  had  learned  something  of  what  had  happened — they 


216  FOURSQUARE 

were  really  allied  against  him,  these  people.  He  stared 
across  at  the  quiet,  strong  face  before  him,  acknowledging 
reluctantly  to  himself  that  the  college  professor  gave  an  im- 
pression of  sturdy  character  and  of  repressed  force  with 
which  it  wouldn't  be  easy  to  deal.  Mere  urbanity  and  tact 
wouldn't  do  it;  Fenn  couldn't  be  moved  by  diplomacy;  he 
must  be  convinced.  Whatever  his  relation  to  Mary,  it  was 
quite  clear  that  he  would  have  a  bulldog's  tenacity  in  his 
guarding  of  her  from  further  injury  at  anybody's  hands. 
With  the  nurse  and  doctor  as  allies  he  could,  quite  con- 
ceivably, at  least  for  a  disastrously  long  period,  cut  off 
Kirkwood  himself  from  any  further  satisfactory  partnership 
with  her.  And  the  book — so  brilliantly  begun — mounting 
cumulatively  toward  its  high-level,  half-way  mark  with  such 
dramatic  power — why,  it  was  unthinkable  that  it  shouldn't 
be  completed!  Unthinkable  that  in  due  course  it  shouldn't 
be  printed,  and  that  John  Kirkwood's  name  shouldn't  ap- 
pear upon  its  title  page  with  Mary  Fletcher's.  Who  was 
this  country  school-teacher  that  he  should  interfere  in  a 
triumph  so  legitimate?  And  the  basis  of  his  opposition,  the 
mere  half-delirious  imaginings  of  a  nervous  girl  worn  out  by 
a  long  journey  and  the  bereavement  she  found  awaiting  her. 
The  situation  was  absurd — it  must  be  dealt  with  summarily. 
By  an  effort  Kirkwood  kept  himself  well  in  hand.  He 
spoke  with  frankness,  and  with  apparent  willingness  to  have 
the  other  man  know  the  facts  in  the  case.  He  told  him  the 
story  of  the  evening  on  which  he  had  taken  Mary  to  the 
place  where  the  choicest  spirits  of  the  times  were  wont  to 
gather — told  him  of  the  quality  and  charm  of  the  evening's 
programme  of  entertainment — told  him  of  the  regrettable  ac- 
cident which  had  marred  what  would  otherwise  have  been 
for  Mary  Fletcher  one  of  the  most  valuable  and  stimulating 
experiences  of  her  life.  Told,  in  fact,  the  whole  story — ' 
and — somehow,  told  nothing.  In  other  words,  the  editor 


CHECK!  217 

used  his  professional  skill,  as  he  had  never  used  it  before, 
and  edited  the  tale  as  he  went  along,  so  that  while  it  seemed 
to  be  the  full  truth,  it  was,  from  start  to  finish,  in  effect  the 
cleverest  of  lies. 

While  he  told  it,  Mark  Fenn's  eyes  never  left  his  face. 
Kirkwood,  uncomfortable  under  the  steady  look,  though  he  by 
no  means  outwardly  flinched,  brought  the  thing  to  a  climax 
with  his  closing  statement. 

"So  you  see,  don't  you,  that  while  it  was  a  most  unfortu- 
nate ending  to  an  otherwise  perfect  evening,  it  absolutely 
couldn't  have  been  foreseen.  I  did  the  only  thing  possible — 
got  her  away  on  the  instant  and  saved  her  from  any  slightest 
publicity.  If  there  had  been  any  conceivable  way  in  which 
I  could  have  wiped  the  whole  recollection  from  her  sensitive 
brain,  I  would  have  done  anything  in  my  power  to  find  it. 
Not  for  any  gain  to  myself,  would  I — but  I  don't  need  to  say 
that.  None  of  you  here  can  possibly  be  more  anxious  for  her 
well-being  than  I.  I  can  say  no  more.  Won't  you  believe 
that,  on  the  word  of  one  man  to  another,  and  give  over  look- 
ing upon  me — as  it's  quite  evident  you  do — as  a  strange  sort 
of  antagonist  rather  than  her  most  devoted  friend  ?" 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  the  space  of  many 
slow  tickings  of  the  old  grandfather's  clock  which  stood  in  a 
corner  of  the  study.  When  Fenn  broke  it  at  last,  it  was  to 
speak  in  a  measured,  slow  tone  which  yet  seemed  to  hold 
elements  of  fire. 

"It's  difficult  to  think  that  a  real  friend,  who  must  know 
that  the  sight  of  him  would  inevitably  recall  the  whole  painful 
experience — not  to  mention  the  weeks  of  overwork  which 
must  have  preceded  it — would  risk  coming  here  at  all  with- 
out permission.  But" — as  Kirkwood  would  have  spoken — 
"it's  still  more  difficult,  Mr.  Kirkwood,  to  understand  how 
you  could  have  ventured  to  come  here  with  the  unfinished 
manuscript,  ready  to  try  to  prevail  upon  her  to  go  on  with  it." 


218  FOURSQUARE 

Kirkwood  jumped  to  his  feet,  furiously  resentful  of  this 
thrust.  "How  do  you  know  I  have  the  manuscript  here" — 
for  a  moment  he  gave  way  to  his  instant  suspicion — "except 
by  looking  in  my  brief-case,  sir?  You  are  an  honourable  man, 
indeed,  Professor  Fenn!" 

"I  mean  to  be.  I've  not  looked  in  your  brief-case,  Mr. 
Kirkwood." 

Even  as  Kirkwood  would  have  accused  him  of  it  again,  he 
remembered  that  the  case  was  locked  and  the  key  in  his 
pocket.  He  sat  down  once  more,  trying  to  regain  his  self- 
command,  which  this  cool  and  quiet  adversary  had  for  the 
moment  badly  shaken. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Fenn.  But  you  can  hardly 
wonder  at  my  anger,  at  having  you  jump  at  the  conclusion  that 
because  I  have  the  manuscript  with  me — as  you  were  clever 
enough  to  guess — I  had  any  intention  of  trying  to  force  Miss 
Fletcher  to  work  again  before  she  was  fit.  The  manuscript 
is  valuable — there  is  no  copy — Miss  Warren  was  breaking  up 
her  apartment — I  secured  it  and  brought  it  to  its  owner. 
.  .  .  I  am  done  with  explanations,  Mr.  Fenn.  I  reserve 
my  right  to  do  any  further  explaining  to  Miss  Fletcher  her- 
self, with  whom  I  have  an  appointment  in  the  morning." 

That  ended  the  interview,  naturally.  Neither  man  was 
precisely  satisfied  with  the  outcome  of  the  talk.  Fenn  was  a 
just  man — he  would  not  willingly  have  done  an  injury.  His 
instinct  and  custom  were  to  give  an  opponent  the  benefit  of 
any  possible  doubt.  He  wasn't  entirely  pleased  with  him- 
self for  having  in  a  way  tricked  Kirkwood  into  the  admission 
that  the  manuscript  was  with  him.  Yet  his  blood  was  up; 
he  had  felt  that  he  had  to  deal  with  an  opponent  so  accom- 
plished in  the  ways  of  the  world  that  it  would  take  all  his 
own  presumably  slower  wits  to  deal  with  him.  For  Mary's 
sake  he  had  meant  to  put  Kirkwood  on  the  defensive;  to 
make  him  understand  that  he  couldn't  treat  her  as  he  had 


CHECK!  219 

done  before — with  a  determination  that  seemed  ruthless  to 
get  all  he  could  out  of  her  over-wrought  brain  without  regard 
to  the  consequences.  Why,  it  was  more  than  doubtful  whether 
the  interview  of  the  morrow  ought  to  be  permitted  at  all,  lest  it 
set  back  her  recovery.  But  at  least  Fenn  had  done  what  he 
could  to  protect  her.  There  are  situations  where  the  only 
way  to  fight  fire  is  with  fire — that  he  knew.  Grimly  he 
closed  the  door  on  Mr.  John  Kirkwood,  after  a  decidedly 
constrained  parting. 

But  it  was  Rose  O'Grady  who  cut  the  knot  of  the  difi> 
culty.  When  she  met  a  Mary  in  the  morning  who  hadn't 
slept — whose  newly  regained  poise  was  shaken,  out  of  whose 
face  the  light  of  the  day  before  had  vanished,  leaving  more 
than  a  suggestion  of  the  haunted  look  with  which  she  had 
come  home  two  months  ago.  Rose  took  things  into  her  own 
hands.  There  was  little  finesse  about  Miss  O'Grady — the 
straight-from-the-shoulder  method  was  hers. 

She  telephoned  the  doctor.  "Miss  Fletcher  had  a  bad 
night  again,  Doctor;  the  first  in  three  weeks.  I  know  without 
being  told  she's  dreading  the  visit  from  the  one  you  found 
here  last  evening.  Have  I  your  authority  to  forbid  it?" 

The  answer  came  back  like  a  pistol  shot.  "Certainly,  if 
you're  sure  she  hadn't  better  .have  it  out  with  him  and  get  it 
over." 

"I'm  sure  she's  not  fit  yet  to  have  anything  over. 
Her  hand  shakes  like  a  leaf — that  was  steady  as  a  clock 
yesterday  morn.  It's  myself  that'll  see  the  person — if  you 
say  so." 

"Go  to  it!"  And  Dr.  Reade  hung  up  the  receiver  with  the 
same  sense  of  security  at  leaving  his  patient  in  the  capable 
hands  of  this  jewel  of  all  nurses  that  he  had  had  many 
times  before. 

So  when  Kirkwood  was  announced,  Rose  went  down.  At 
sight  of  her  he  stiffened.  His  grave  face  did  not  relax  into 


220  FOURSQUARE 

a  smile.  He  was  feeling  pretty  badly  used,  and  very  unhappy 
about  the  whole  situation  besides. 

Rose  was  not  ungracious;  indeed,  she  seemed  less  uncom- 
promising than  she  had  done  the  night  before.  It  was  easy 
enough  to  recognize  that  the  editor  had  completely  lost  his 
assurance;  she  had  now  rather  to  win  him  to  her  position  than 
to  deal  sledge-hammer  blows  upon  him.  In  her  experience 
she  had  long  ago  discovered  that  nothing  is  gained  by  an- 
tagonism after  a  point  is  won;  and  she  was  fully  aware  that 
Mary  herself  wanted  her  to  be  kind. 

"Mr.  Kirkwood,"  she  said,  with  her  deep-blue  Irish  eyes 
meeting  his  frankly,  "  'tis  yourself,  I  know,  that'll  not  be 
wanting  to  do  Miss  Fletcher  a  harm  by  seeing  her  this  morn- 
ing. You've  already  done  her  that  by  coming  to  this  place. 
She  had  no  sleep  at  all — she's  half  ill,  but  you  don't  want 
to  make  the  matter  worse.  Am  I  right?" 

"You're  certainly  right  in  thinking  I  don't  want  to  make  it 
worse,  Miss  O'Grady.  I  undoubtedly  blundered  in  taking 
her  by  surprise.  I'm  very  sorry.  But  now  that  I'm  here — 
you  surely  don't  think  it  necessary  to  keep  me  from  talking 
with  her  at  all?  If  the  sight  of  me,  as  I  understand,  has 
brought  back  her  recollection  of — all  that  went  to  cause  her 
illness,  wouldn't  it  be  better  for  her  to  see  me  again,  and  let 
me  try  to  replace  that  memory  with  a  pleasanter  one?  If  I 
go  away  without  seeing  her — as  you  ask  me  to  do — won't 
the  thought  of  me  continue  to  hurt  her?  While  if  she  saw 
me — I  assure  you  I  should  be  very  gentle  with  her — I 
shouldn't  talk  of  her  work.  We've  been  good  friends  for  a 
very  long  time,  Miss  O'Grady.  Are  you  sure  that  you  know 
exactly  what  is  best  for  her  now?" 

His  manner  had  changed  completely  from  that  of  the 
evening  before  which  had  so  displeased  her.  It  was  full  of 
deference  and  of  regret.  Rose  O'Grady  couldn't  have  been 
deceived  easily;  if  his  attitude  had  been  insincere,  if  it  had 


CHECK!  221 

not  been  so  clear  that  he  was  quite  as  sorry  as  he  professed 
for  having  come  too  soon,  she  would  have  known  it.  But 
she  saw,  with  those  clear  blue  eyes  of  hers,  that  he  was 
genuinely  miserable.  She  wasn't  in  the  least  able  to  forgive 
him  for  the  part  he  had  prayed  in  Mary's  life  of  those  weeks 
before  her  home-coming,  but  she  somehow  knew  that  he 
was  now  consumed  with  regret  and  disappointment,  and  the 
knowledge  softened  her  dealing  with  him. 

"She  minds  me,  Mr.  Kirkwood,  of  a  fiddle  my  brothei^ 
used  to  have.  It  was  easy  to  tune  it  right,  but  it  wouldn't 
stay  tuned.  The  least  bit  of  change  in  the  air — or  no 
change  at  all — and  it  would  go  flat.  It  was  a  tender  bit 
thing,  too — very  old  and  frail.  Cracks  would  come  in  it,  and 
had  to  be  mended.  He  would  never  trust  it  in  any  hands 
but  his  own,  and  he  kept  it  wrapped  in  silk,  at  that.  He'd 
another — a  strong  little  brute  of  a  fiddle — that  you  could 
knock  about.  But — he  couldn't  play  the  tunes  on  it  that  he 
could  on  the  other." 

"Do  you  think  I  haven't  known,"  Kirkwood  asked,  after  a 
moment,  "that  I  was  dealing  with  just  such  a  human  instru- 
ment ?  If  in  any  way  I  haven't  fully  appreciated  the  delicacy 
of  it,  you  may  be  very  sure  I  recognize  that  now.  I  want 
nothing  so  much  as  to — help  mend  the  crack.  Cracks  aren't 
fatal,  you  know,  even  to  such  a  rare  violin  as  you  describe, 
if  they're  mended  properly. — I'll  never  willingly  be  even 
partly  responsible  for  another,  Miss  O'Grady.  I've  suffered 
too  keenly  over  this." 

"It's  good  to  suffer,"  she  said.  "We  learn  no  other  way. 
But — Miss  Mary's  suffered  enough — there  must  be  no 
more." 

"No  more.  But  can't  you  conceive  that  I,  who  hurt  her, 
might  do  more  than  any  one  else  to  help  her  now?  I  believe 
it's  good  psychology  which  insists  that  where  there  is  fear 
of  anything  it's  best  to  face  it  and  get  over  it  than  to  run 


222  FOURSQUARE 

away  from  it.  In  half  an  hour — or  half  of  that,  I  believe — 1 
could  take  away  from  Mary — I  know  her  well  enough  to  call 
her  that,  you  see — the  worst  of  her  difficulties.  Won't  you — 
please — give  me  the  chance?" 

Rose  studied  him.  He  stood  before  her  on  the  hearth-rug, 
his  side  to  the  fireplace,  and  though  his  face  was  turned 
slightly  from  her  as  he  looked  steadily  down  into  the  fire,  she 
could  see  its  expression.  It  was  such  an  interesting  face, 
when  one  observed  it  without  prejudice,  every  feature  lending 
itself  to  the  impression  of  quality  which  was  most  out- 
standing of  any,  Rose  found  herself  comprehending  better 
than  she  had  done  at  the  moment  the  thing  Mary  had  said  a 
few  minutes  before.  When  she  had  consented  to  Rose's 
seeing  Kirkwood  and  sending  him  away,  if  she  really  thought 
that  the  thing  to  be  done,  Mary  had  nevertheless  said 
mournfully: 

"In  spite  of  everything,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  losing  something 
that  can  never  be  replaced.  Perhaps,  when  you  see  him, 
Rose,  you'll  think  that  after  all  I'd  better  see  him  too.  I'm 
quite  able,  really.  Maybe  it  would  be  better — I  don't  know." 

Rose  had  answered,  firmly:  "I'll  use  my  judgment."  As 
she  descended  the  stairs  that  judgment  had  been  all  against 
the  man  below.  But  now,  something  about  him  was  making 
its  appeal  to  her.  For  all  her  Irish  warmth  of  nature,  Rose 
possessed  a  cool  head,  partly  by  inheritance,  partly  perhaps 
because  of  a  strain  of  sturdy  Scotch  caution  in  her  blood. 
Kirkwood  was  not  the  sort  of  man  to  take  her  off  her  feet; 
personally  she  would  have  remained  cold  to  him.  But  a 
certain  sincerity  in  him,  as  he  now  restrainedly  pleaded  his 
cause  with  her,  removed  to  some  extent  her  prejudice  against 
him.  And  that  last  argument,  appealing  as  it  did  to  her  under- 
standing of  the  strange  laws  governing  human  nature,  sick 
or  well,  made  her  reconsider  her  edict.  One  of  Rose's  strong- 
est qualifications  as  a  nurse,  as  Dr.  Christopher  Reade  could 


CHECK!  223 

have  testified,  was  a  peculiar  ability  to  see  light  in  a  place 
where  she  had  declared  was  nothing  but  darkness.  She 
could  shift  and  change  her  ground,  even  as  he  did,  though  the 
change  set  at  naught  her  own  surest  predictions.  In  other 
words,  she  was  adaptable  to  situations  as  they  arose;  could 
yield  a  point  with  a  flash  of  humour,  though  her  life  had  been 
staked  on  it — yet  could  hold  out  against  all  odds,  if  she  were 
sure  she  was  right.  Just  now — she  wasn't  sure. 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me,"  she  said,  after  a  full  minute's 
reflection,  "what  you  would  say  to  her?  Remember  that  I 
know — how  the  thought  of  you  and  what  happened  kept  her 
from  sleep  many  the  long  hour.  And  kept  her  from  it 
again  last  night,  when  she'd  been  sleeping  like  a  baby  for 
three  weeks  now.  We  can't  risk — Mr.  Kirkwood,  we  can't 
risk  tuning  up  those  strings  again.  They're  worn  thin — 
they  all  but  snapped  before — and  we  haven't  got  the  new 
ones  on,  not  yet.  It'll  take  a  long  time  to  get  them." 

"I  know — I  can  guess.  No,  Miss  O'Grady — I'll  not 
stretch  those  strings.  Rather — I  might  be  able  to  let  them 
down.  What  shall  I  say  to  her?  I  hardly  know  till  I  see  her. 
But  I  promise  you  this — I  will  feel  my  way  very  carefully. 
And  I  think,  if  I  can  leave  her  with  a  sense  of  our  having 
parted  in  a  pleasant,  friendly  way,  with  no  tension  in  our 
relations — such  as  there  certainly  is  now — it  will  be  better 
for  her  than  the  remembrance  of  having  sent  me  away  as  if 
she  were  an  invalid  who  could  bear  nothing.  That's  not 
really  good  for  any  one,  is  it?" 

Rose  O'Grady  answered  promptly:  "It  is  not — and  it's  not 
myself  would  do  it  with  one  I  could  trust.  I  don't  know  you, 
Mr.  Kirkwood,  and  I've  not  had  reason  to  think  well  of  you. 
But — if  I  put  you  on  your  honour  to  take  care  of  her,  and 
send  her  upstairs  to  me  when  you've  gone  happier  than  she's 
been  since  you  came  under  the  roof " 

She  paused,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eye.    No  man 


224  FOURSQUARE 

could  lie  to  Rose  O'Grady — or  even  try  to  mislead  her;  she 
was  the  sort  who  could  read  him  through  and  through,  with 
an  almost  uncanny  perception.  She  inspired  respect  as  well 
as  candour,  and  to  himself  Kirkwood  now  acknowledged 
that  he  had  never  faced  a  woman  whom  he  so  wished  to 
convince  of  his  own  genuineness. 

"I  give  you  my  word,"  he  said  gravely. 

She  nodded,  and  went  away  upstairs,  prompt  to  act  now 
that  she  was  convinced.  After  a  short  interval  Mary  came 
down.  When  he  heard  her  voice  upon  the  stairs  he  went  to 
the  door  to  meet  her  and  saw  to  his  chagrin  that  she  clung 
to  the  rail  all  the  way.  It  was  not  the  Mary  of  last  night 
whom  he  met  at  the  foot.  Now  that  he  had  eyes  to  see  he 
saw  indeed  that  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  three  people  had 
been  guarding  her  from  him. 

"It's  very  silly  of  me,  I  know,"  she  said  unsteadily,  when 
he  had  seated  her  and  stood  before  her  without  speaking. 
"But  somehow  the  sight  of  you  brought  it  all  back.  I  don't 
mean  just — that  night — though  that  was  bad  enough — but  all 
those  weeks  before.  I — you  don't  know  what  it  was  to  me  to 
;eel — under  your  power.  I  wasn't — myself.  It  was  you — 
you  had  control  of  my  mind.  Somehow — that  was  a  horror 
to  me,  even  when  I  was  doing  my  best  work.  When  I  was 
ill  here,  at  first,  it  was  my  nightmare  that — I  was  not  my- 
self but  you.  I  thought  you  controlled  me — would  always 
control  me.  I've  only  just  begun  to  get  a  little  away  from 

that.  But  seeing  you — again — somehow "  And  here 

she  put  her  hands  before  her  face.  "Oh,  I'm  so  ashamed 
to  be — so  weak.  But — I  can't  bear  it — any  more." 

She  hadn't  been  looking  at  him,  so  she  didn't  see  the  ex- 
pression which  came  over  his  face — one  of  pain^-then  of 
alarm.  He  drew  a  great  smothered  breath  which  he  in- 
stantly suppressed.  Then  he  took  a  turn  up  and  down  before 
her,  three  or  four  steps  each  way;  drew  up  a  rba/r  and  «af 


CHECK!  225 

down  facing  her.  He  leaned  forward,  so  that  he  could  look 
intently  into  her  face. 

"Mary,"  he  said,  "I've  something  to  say  to  you,  and  I 
want  you  to  listen — very  closely.  I'm  not  trying  to  con-- 
trol  your  mind  now,  I  just  want  you  to  give  me  your  full  atten- 
tion— and  not — of  all  things  not — to  be  afraid  of  me.  For  I 
am  going  to  make  you — well  I " 

She  stared  at  him,  and  his  heart  contracted  as  he  saw  the 
purple  shadows  in  which  her  eyes  were  deeply  set.  He  real- 
ized that  he  had  seen  those  eyes  so  shadowed  many  times 
before,  but  had  only  thought  what  lovely  eyes  they  were,  and 
that  the  shadows  became  them.  Now — he  wanted  to  take 
that  deep,  tell-tale  colouring  away. 

"I  want  you  to  know — to  understand,"  he  went  on,  very 
quietly  but  with  all  the  firmness  and  conviction  he  could  put 
into  his  voice,  "that  if  I  did — consciously  or  unconsciously — • 
"ontrol  you,  in  a  way — you  are  absolutely  free  now  of  such 
control.  I  set  you  free.  I  shall  never  try  again  to  make  you 
do  work  of  mine  or  in  my  way.  Do  you  understand  me, 
Mary?  I  want  to  take  away  from  you  that  horror  you 
feel  of  me — I  can't  bear  that,  any  better  than  you  can  bear 
the  thoughts  you  have  had.  So — I  set  you  free.  Definitely, 
finally — set  you  free.  Tell  me — that  relieves  you?  I  will  say 
it  as  many  times  as  you  want  me  to,  till  you  are  sure  of  it." 

She  still  stared  at  him.  He  tried  to  smile  reassuringly 
at  her,  but  the  tensity  of  her  gaze  showed  no  relaxing.  "  But 
— the  book,"  she  said,  under  her  breath.  "Your  book.  It 
can't  be  written — without  me.  You've  told  me  so,  over  and 
over.  And  yet  I  think — I'd  rather  die — than  try  to  finish  it. 
I  couldn't  finish  it — not  even  under  your  control." 

"Mary" — and  now  he  spoke  almost  sternly,  for  he  recog- 
nized something  dangerously  near  to  an  obsession — "I  want 
you  never  to  speak — or  think — that  word  again.  You  were 
not  actually  under  anything — from  me — except  the  will  to 


226  FOURSQUARE 

have  you  do  your  best.  And  you  are  free  now  from  even  that 
will.  Forget  the  book — forget  me,  too,  if  you  need  to  do  that, 
for  the  present,  anyhow.  Nothing  matters  in  the  world  ex- 
cept that  you  get  well  and  strong  and  that  you  drop  all 
anxiety  about  everything.  Come — tell  me  that  you  will.'* 

"You  don't  care  if  the  book  isn't  finished?  Oh,  but  you 
do!" 

He  looked  at  her.  "Hang  the  book!  Hang  it — burn  it — 
bury  it — but  forget  about  it!  I  tell  you,  my  dear  girl,  I 
release  you  from  it,  absolutely  and  forever.  Why,  do  you 
think  I'm  such  a  cold-blooded  brute  that  I  want  my  book 
written  with  your  flesh  and  blood?" 

"You  cared  very,  very  much.     You  said " 

"Never  mind  what  I  said.  What  I'm  saying  now  is  what 
I  mean,  with  every  fibre  of  me.  Won't  you  believe  me? — • 
If  you  don't — I'll  bring  the  manuscript  in  here  and  burn  it 
in  the  fire,  before  your  eyes." 

"Oh,  don't!"  she  cried  sharplv.  "I  don't  want  to  see  itt 
Is  it  here?  Why " 

"It's  not  here — in  the  house.  You  never  shall  see  it,  then, 
Mary — can't  I  convince  you?  What  have  you  thought  me, 
anyway?  Why,  I've  meant  to  be  your  friend,  all  these  years. 
I  wouldn't  hurt  you  for  my  life.  Oh,  please,  my  dear — you're 
making  me  desperately  unhappy  and  anxious.  Give  me 
your  hand  and  tell  me  what  I've  said  relieves  you,  and  that 
when  I've  gone  you'll  rest  in  peace.  Never  in  all  my  life 
have  I  been  so  near  wanting  to  be  taken  and  thrashed,  for 
causing  you — all  I  have  caused  you.  But  it's  all  over. 
There's  only  one  thing  out  of  the  wreck  I  want  to  keep,  if 
you'll  let  me.  And  that's  your  friendship." 

"You  would  rather — you  wouldn't  rather — have  that 
than — the  book?" 

He  laughed,  encouraged.  "  I'd  rather  have  it,  a  thousand 
times,  than  the  book.  If  I  may  keep  it,  I'll  go  away  happy- 


CHECK!  227 

If  I  could  have  my  choice  this  minute  between  seeing  the 
book  finished  and  selling  like  hot-cakes — and  having  your 
friendship — I'd  choose  without  a  moment's  hesitation. 
Now — will  you  believe  me?" 

She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  a  limp  thing  indeed,  in  contrast 
to  the  radiant  creature  of  the  evening  before.  But  her  eyes 
were  slowly  filling  with  tears — healthful,  sane  tears,  speaking 
the  relief  he  had  tried  so  hard  to  give  her.  She  put  out  one 
hand,  while  with  the  other  she  wiped  the  tears  away,  smiling 
through  them. 

"Oh,  it's  good  to  know,"  she  breathed,  "that  you  aren't 
the — monster — that's  haunted  me.  You  are — fine — and 
merciful — and  I  think — you've  taken  away — the " 

"Never  mind  what  it  was,  if  it's  only  gone.  And  in  its 
place  is  rest  and  confidence.  Confidence — that's  all  you 
need.  We  all  need  it — have  to  have  it.  Whei?  we  lose  it, 
we  lose  all  our  power.  But  you'll  get  yours  back,  now,  won't 
you?" 

"I  think  so." 

"I  know  so.  Now — I'm  going.  I  promised  your  body- 
guard with  the  curly  red  hair  that  I'd  stay  only  long  enough 
to  put  myself  right  with  you.  Just  one  thing,  Mary.  When 
the  time  comes,  as  I'm  going  to  believe  it  will,  that  you  care 
to  see  me — as  a  friend,  not  a  slave-driver — will  you  let  me 
know  ?  You  will  care,  some  time,  won't  you  ?  You  won't 
send  me  away  without  that?" 

She  nodded.  "Some  time.  Not  till  I'm  quite  well.  I 
thought  I  was.  I  know  now  I'm  only — convalescent." 

"Poor  little  girl,"  he  said,  unsteadily.  "What  have  I  done 
to  you?  Can  you  ever  really  forgive  me?" 

"I  do  now,"  sh«  said  gently,  "for  the  first  time.  But — 
I  think— wholly." 

He  took  himself  away  on  that — it  was  much  for  her  to  say, 
he  understood. 


228  FOURSQUARE 

Upstairs,  when  he  had  gone,  Mary  put  her  head  down  on 
the  shoulder  of  Rose  O'Grady,  and  the  firm,  kind  hand  patted 
her  shoulder  reassuringly. 

"There,  now — you've  got  it  over.  And  I  see,  by  the  look 
of  you,  that  you're  feeling  the  better  for  having  it  out — as  the 
Doctor  thought." 

"Rose,"  Mary  asked,  sighing  with  the  tired  content  which 
was  enveloping  her  as  with  a  garment,  "just  what  do  you 
think  of  John  Kirkwood,  now  ?  Would  you  mind  telling 
me  how  he  looks  to  you?" 

"He  looks,"  said  Rose,  "like  a  clever  rascal  mixed  up 
somehow  with  a  gentleman  and  a  soldier.  I'd  a  man  in  my 
ward — a  captain  of  artillery  he  was — that  looked  a  deal  like 
him.  He  was  a  divil  of  a  fellow  among  men — yet  he  had  the 
heart  of  a  mother  in  him  for  old  women  and  children.  You 
couldn't  trust  him  at  all — and  you  could  trust  him  with  any- 
thing. One  day  you'd  be  crazy  mad  with  him — and  the  next 
you'd  be  ready  to  kneel  at  his  feet,  for  the  beautiful  kindness 
of  him.  All  I  can  say  of  that  kind  is — be  careful.  And 
then — be  careful  again!  And  I  don't  know  if  you  know  what 
I  mean." 

"Anyhow,  I  know,"  murmured  Mary,  "that  you're  the 
greatest  dear  in  the  world,  and  it's  the  luckiest  thing  that  ever 
happened  to  me,  to  be  with  you." 

"There,  there — and  now  she's  gone  clean  out  of  her  head, 
she  has — and  I'm  going  to  put  her  to  bed  for  an  hour." 

And  Rose  O'Grady  slid  her  strong  young  arms  about  the 
slim  body  of  her  patient,  lifted  her  as  if  she  were  a  child,  and 
her,  laughing  now,  upon  her  bed. 


CHAFFER  XIV 
HANDICAPPED 


"In  the  race,  for  a  place. 
In  the  world  of  space, 
You  must  keep,  with  a  leap, 
All  the  killing  pace. 
You  mustn't  fret, 
Nor  have  regret, 
Always  try,  never  cry, 
If  you  lose  your  bet. 
Wear  a  smile,  all  the  while, 
To  the  very  last  lap  of  the  winning  mile. 
That's  the  play — no  other  way — 
To  make  life  worth  the  while." 


RAVE  words,  Guy  boy.  Did  you 
make  that  up  yourself?" 

Rose  O'Grady  paused  in  her  man- 
ipulation of  the  stiff  left  arm  to  look 
at  the  pale  face  of  her  young  patient. 
He  was  smiling  at  her,  his  lips  now 
softly  whistling  the  lively  air  to  which 
he  had  just  attempted,  in  a  shaky 
tenor,  to  sing  the  words.  His  blue 
eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  hers.  He 
ran  a  long  thin  hand  through  his  fair, 
stiffly  curling  hair,  making  it  stand 
up  oddly  above  his  white  brow. 

"Sure  thing.  It  isn't  any  good, 
though.  I  don't  know  how  to  write 


230  FOURSQUARE 

the  rhyme  stuff.  But  the  air's  all  right.  That's  where  I'm 
on  my  own  ground,  you  know.  If  I  had  a  piano  here — and 
that  darned  arm " 

"Yes,  I  know,  Sonny.  But  the  arm's  getting  better  every 
day.  Try  and  see  if  you  can't  move  it  an  inch  farther 
than  you  could  last  week." 

The  experiment  was  made.     Guy  lifted  pleased  eyes. 

"You  bet  I  can.  Say — when  it  gets  so  I  can  reach  that 
curl  over  your  left  ear — will  you  let  me  touch  it?" 

"It's  pull  it  you  may — and  I'll  pull  yours.  Two  curly 
heads  with  but  a  single  thought — to  pull  each  other's  hair." 

Guy  laughed.  Then  his  glance  fell  to  the  place  where 
the  rug  over  his  knees  drooped  into  a  hollow,  though  it  should 
have  rounded  over  a  sturdy  leg.  Rose's  eyes  followed  his. 

"By  the  time  your  arm's  in  shape  I'm  hoping  you  can  have 
the  new  leg,"  she  suggested,  in  the  matter  of  fact  tone  in 
which  she  was  accustomed  to  allude  to  her  patients'  disabili- 
ties. "Then  you  can  sit  down  at  your  piano,  put  your  feet 
on  both  pedals,  and  pound  away  like  the  true  soldier  boy  you 
are." 

"Where'll  I  get  the  piano?  I  sold  mine  to  pay  the  bills. 
And  I  didn't  make  much  out  of  the  soldier  show,  if  it  did  take 
the  town.  Didn't  have  the  right  contract.  I'm  down  on 
the  bottom — till  I  can  write  a  new  skit.  And  how  I'm  going 
to  do  that,  sitting  here  in  a  wheel-chair " 

"Faith,  you  shall  have  the  piano,  if  I  have  to  rent  one  my- 
self. While  you're  waiting,  couldn't  you  be  thinking  out  the 
tunes?" 

"I'd  like  to — but  it's  no  good  unless  you  can  try  'em  out 
as  you  go.  I'm  not  the  regular  sort  of  composer — can't 
write  my  things  the  way  they  have  to  be.  I  sit  at  the  piano 
and  work  'em  out  and  get  'em  on  paper  so  I  can  remember 
'em.  Nobody  else  could  read  the  stuff  without  me  to  show 
what  my  crazy  tracks  mean.  Just  the  same" — and  the 


HANDICAPPED  23  i 

young  face  lifted  proudly — "I  get  there.  If  you'd  heard  my 

show  over  there And  they  brought  it  back  here,  and 

played  it  to  S.  R.  O.  houses — while  I  was  lying  in  bed  in  that 
French  hospital.  I  ought  to  have  been  a  rich  boy  if  I'd  had 
sense  enough  not  to  sell  it  flat  instead  of  taking  royalties." 

"Never  mind.  Next  time  you'll  have  the  sense.  When 
you  get  strong  enough  you'll  be  writing  the  best  thing  you 
ever  did  because  you'll  have  the  rich  thoughts  to  put  into  it. 
And  that's  what  trouble  does  for  us,  Sonny." 

"Gee!  I  ought  to  have  a  lot  of  those  rich  thoughts  then, 
Miss  Rose."  And  the  well  arm  reached  out  a  tightly  clenched 
fist,  to  hit  the  arm  of  the  wheel-chair  a  -smacking  blow. 
"Anyhow,  you  keep  a  fellow  from  feeling  down  and  out,  and 
that  counts  more  than  rubbing  his  stiff  arm." 

"I'm  going  to  have  you  out  this  very  day.  And  you  shaU 
fcee  a  piano,  too — a  good  one.  No — I  won't  tell  you  how  ot 
where.  Wait  till  afternoon  and  you'll  see." 

Rose  ran  home  from  there.  Guy  Carter  was  the  last  of  the 
morning  list  of  Dr.  Reade's  patients,  to  whom  she  went  daily 
to  give  massage  or  baths.  The  small  house  where  an  aged 
aunt  had  taken  in  the  mutilated  young  soldier  on  his  return 
from  the  French  hospitals  stood  at  the  foot  of  the  hill.  Rose 
was  so  used  to  mounting  the  hill  at  a  brisk  pace,  she  arrived  at 
the  Graham  terraced  garden  with  plenty  of  breath  left  to  put 
her  case  to  Mary  Fletcher  without  a  moment's  delay. 

Between  rows  of  double  pink  and  yellow  tulips  loitered 
Mary,  a  basket  filled  to  overflowing  with  the  gay  blooms, 
youth  and  health  in  her  face.  She  waved  the  basket  at  Rose, 
coming  on  apace. 

"What-ho,  Nursie?  Why  the  mad  haste,  the  sparkle  in 
the  eye?" 

"Mary,  it's  your  job  I've  found.  And  a  big  little  lovely 
job  it  is." 

Mary  whistled.     "What  if  I  shouldn't  leap  at  it?     I've 


232  FOURSQUARE 

thought  up  one  for  myself.  I'm  going  into  the  florist's  busi- 
ness. I'm  mad  over  these  tulips.  I  could  worship  them." 

"Mad  you  may  be,  but  it's  my  job  you'll  be  taking.  It's 
a  human  plant  you're  to  have,  to  set  in  the  sun  and  tend — • 
and  bring  to  the  flower.  Listen." 

Rose  sat  down  on  an  overturned  bushel-basket,  left  where 
Bates  had  been  weeding  when  he  went  to  his  dinner.  In 
brisk  but  eloquent  terms  she  set  forth  the  claims  of  the  soldier 
who  was  longing  to  write  another  musical  "show,"  who  had 
only  one  arm  and  one  leg  but  a  burning  brain  to  do  it  with, 
and  who 

"Bring  him  up!"  commanded  Mary.  "I'll  fill  the  house 
with  tulips,  set  him  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  we'll  have  the 
first  act  blocked  out  before  night." 

"Whist! — It's  not  to  take  him  off  his  feet  you  are.  He's 
weak  yet,  and  too  much  happiness  won't  do  for  him.  You're 
to  leave  him  alone  with  the  piano,  not  sit  and  smile  at  him.'* 

"Can  he  sit  at  the  piano?" 

"Why  not?    His  wheel-chair  can  be  raised  a  bit." 

"Very  well — arrange  it  to  suit  yourself.  If  he's  as  clever 
as  you  think  him  something  may  come  of  it.  I'll  put  off  the 
building  of  my  greenhouse  for  a  week  or  two.  If  he  wrote 
'Present  Arms!'  as  you  say,  he  must  be  jolly  good  at  that  sort 
of  thing.  I  saw  that  on  the  other  side.  It  was  great  stuff. 
Why  haven't  you  told  me  about  him  before?" 

"The  time  hadn't  come.  Besides,  I  didn't  know  so  much 
about  what  he'd  done  as  he  told  me  to-day.  He  was  just  a 
poor  doughboy  to  me,  with  an  arm  I'd  got  to  make  well." 

It  didn't  take  much,  in  these  days,  to  start  Mary's  im- 
agination. She  had  her  way  about  the  tulips,  arranged 
splendid  masses  of  them  in  bowls  and  baskets,  and  left  a 
special  study  in  effects  upon  the  right  shelf  of  the  grand  piano. 
When  Guy  Carter  arrived  in  his  chair  that  afternoon,  she  met 
Kim  half-way  down  the  garden  walk. 


HANDICAPPED  233 

"There's  one  thing  you'd  best  understand  before  I  take 
you  to  the  big  house,  Sonny,"  Rose  had  said  to  her  patient, 
on  the  way  up.  "You're  not  to  get  yourself  excited  with 
the  company  of  Miss  Mary  Fletcher.  She's  quite  a  grand 
lady,  in  her  way — with  her  fame  and  her  position  in  the  town. 
She's  fairly  young  yet,  but  not  so  young  as  you,  and  she's  keen 
for  an  interest,  now  when  she's  forbidden  to  work  at  her  own. 
She'll  dazzle  the  eyes  of  you,  for  she's  that  easy  to  look  at;  and 
she'll  be  kind  as  an  angel,  for  she'll  be  sorry  for  your  trouble. 
But  you're  not  to  go  losing  your  head,  or  I'll  regret  the  day 
I  brought  you  to  her.  Maybe  you  can  write  your  music 
better  for  seeing  her  and  talking  with  her,  and  that's  why  I 
think  right  to  show  you  a  sort  of  person  mayhap  you've  not 
just  met  with  before. — You'll  forgive  me  for  speaking  this 
plain  to  you?  If  one  knows  at  the  start  one  can  keep  his 
guard  up  against  trouble,  eh?" 

Guy  Carter  had  swallowed  hard,  twice,  before  he  answered: 
*I  guess  I  understand.  You  don't  need  to  tell  me  there's 
nothing  for  me  anywhere  except — work." 

"That's  not  what  I'm  telling  you.  There'll  be  plenty  for 
you,  when  you're  well  again.  But — Miss  Mary — well,  she 
belongs  to  another  world  than  you  and  me,  and  if  she's  in 
ours  at  all  we  may  think  ourselves  lucky  and  let  it  go  at  that. 
See — Sonny?" 

"I  see.  Don't  worry."  The  young  lips  stiffened,  the 
white  brow  frowned  a  little.  Plenty  of  practice  the  soldier 
had  had  in  meeting  crises;  in  spite  of  his  present  disabilities 
he  was  no  soft  thing,  to  need  protection  from  a  girl.  He 
wasn't  going  to  presume  upon  his  luck  in  being  brought  to 
this.dignified  old  house  with  its  tall  pillars,  whatever  he  might 
find  inside.  If  there  was  a  piano  inside,  and  if  he  might  play 
upon  it,  even  with  one  hand,  that  was  quite  good  enough  for 
to-day. 

Rose's  warning  might  seem  premature,  yet  as  Mar>  ran  out 


234  FOURSQUARE 

to  meet  them  one  must  admit  that  it  was  likely  to  be  needed, 
be  it  doughboy  or  general  who  came  thus  to  her  door.  The 
sheer  charm  of  her,  now  that  she  was  well  again,  was  such  as 
to  assert  itself  before  she  so  much  as  opened  her  mouth;  and 
when  she  did  open  it  the  beguilingly  mellow  beauty  of  her 
voice  was  likely  to  finish  what  her  looks  began. 

"How  you  must  have  missed  your  piano,"  she  said,  as  the 
wheel-chair  rolled  into  the  drawing-room.  "And  this  one's 
just  suffering  to  be  used.  Since  I  brought  the  tulips  in,  this 
morning,  it's  looked  to  me  as  if  it  just  must  break  out  into 
some  kind  of  a  rollicking  spring  song.  I  sat  down  and  played 
Schubert  and  Schumann  on  it,  but  somehow  that  didn't  seem 
to  satisfy  it.  Maybe  you'll  know  what  it  wants." 

Guy  gazed  at  the  big  instrument  with  its  mass  of  single  pink 
and  double  yellow  tulips — the  latter  so  rich  in  depth  of  colour 
that  they  were  almost  of  a  rusty  orange.  But  his  eyes  didn't 
linger  on  the  flowers;  it  was  on  the  long  white  ivory  line  of  the 
keyboard  that  his  look  fastened  so  hungrily. 

"I  might,  if  I  had  two  arms,"  he  said,  almost  under  his 
breath. 

"My  heart,  but  you  can  do  a  lot  with  one,  Sonny!"  cried 
Rose,  and  wheeled  the  chair  toward  the  beckoning  instrument. 
Mary  pushed  the  bench  aside,  and  Guy  found  himself  within 
reach  of  those  black-and-white  keys,  which  had  for  many 
months  tantalized  his  dreams,  sleeping  and  waking.  Now 
he  sat  looking  at  them,  an  excited  flush  slowly  rising  in  his 
cheek. 

"We're  going  to  run  away  and  leave  you  alone  with  it," 
said  Mary  Fletcher,  smiling  at  him  across  the  tulips — con- 
trary to  instructions.  But  he  hardly  turned  his  eyes  toward 
her.  Instead  he  stared  down  at  his  stiff  left  arm.  Inch  by 
inch  he  lifted  it  till  the  left  hand  reached  the  keyboard;  the 
fingers  touched  it,  moved  along  it,  slowly  striking  here  and 
there. 


HANDICAPPED  235 

"That's  it!  Give  it  something  it  wants  to  do,  and  it'll 
be  doing  it,"  Rose  encouraged. 

Suddenly  the  right  hand  broke  into  a  series  of  arpeggios, 
tilting  lightly  up  and  down  the  keyboard.  Laboriously  the 
left  supplied  a  bass  note,  here  and  there.  Over  the  tense 
young  lips  crept  a  smile.  Guy  looked  up.  "You've  said 
something,"  he  acknowledged. 

Nurse  and  hostess  went  away,  though  both  wanted  nothing 
better  than  to  stay  and  watch  developments.  Somehow 
both  knew  that  nothing  more  satisfying  than  arpeggios  would 
be  likely  to  come  of  their  presence.  Above  stairs,  however, 
they  listened.  It  was  hardly  possible  to  do  otherwise. 
After  a  time,  Rose,  missing  Mary,  went  in  search  and  found 
her  sitting  on  the  top  step  of  the  staircase.  She  looked  up, 
holding  up  a  cautioning  hand. 

"He's  been  still  for  quite  a  while — I  think  he's  writing  it 
down.  I  don't  dare  move,  but  I'm  crazy  to  see.  He's  got 
the  motif  for  a  song,  I  know." 

The  notes  broke  out  again,  more  ordered  than  before.  By 
what  gymnastics  with  the  well  right  hand  were  the  low  el 
harmonies  being  supplied  one  could  only  guess,  but  certain 
it  was  that  something  full  and  immensely  taking  was  being 
evolved.  It  wasn't  exactly  rag,  it  distinctly  wasn't  straight 
march,  on  the  beat;  but  whatever  it  was,  it  was  the  sort  of 
thing  which  gets  into  one's  brain.  Some  gay  young  Pierrot 
might  have  capered  upon  the  stage  in  it,  turned  sober,  walked 
with  a  stately  step  for  a  bar  or  two,  then  been  off  again  in  a 
delirium  of  fantastic  movements,  only  to  come  back  to  his  dig- 
nity once  more,  with  a  final  grace  both  captivating  and  courtly. 

In  her  lap  Mary's  hands  clasped  themselves  tightly.  "Oh, 
I  must  go  down  now  and  tell  him  how  clever — how  enor- 
mously clever — that  is,"  she  whispered. 

"Hold  him  steady,  then — don't  be  praising  him  too  much. 
He'll  be  tired  now  and  should  stop.  I'll  take  him  back  soon." 


236  FOURSQUARE 

Mary  smiled.  Well  she  knew  Rose's  methods — they  were 
always  of  the  level  head.  Her  own  impulse  was  of  course  to 
fly  at  the  young  composer  and  talk  composition  with  him  till 
both  their  heads  should  reel.  But  for  such  an  invalid  that 
wouldn't  do,  as  she  of  all  people  ought  to  understand.  So 
she  walked  into  the  drawing-room  very  quietly,  came  around 
to  the  piano,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  the  wheel-chair. 

"Nurse  says  it's  time  to  stop.  Did  you  get  something? 
I  thought  so — as  it  came  upstairs  to  me." 

He  looked  at  her  then,  and  she  saw  the  change  in  him.  He 
was  no  longer  the  invalid,  he  was  alight  with  new  fires. 

"Did  it  sound  like  something?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 

"Indeed  it  did.  I  thought  perhaps  one  of  those  pink-and- 
white  striped  tulips  had  jumped  out  on  the  rack  before  youk 
ind  you  were  making  a  dance  for  him." 

He  shook  his  head.  "It's  for  a  fellow  with  a  crutch,  who's 
just  got  back  the  use  of  his  legs — see?  It's  been  bothering 
my  head  ever  since  Miss  Rose  came  to  look  after  me.  The 
crutch's  in  the  dance,  because  he  likes  to  wave  it  about  and 
take  a  few  steps  with  it,  now  and  then,  just  to  show  how  he 
used  to  go.  He's  crazy  with  joy,  you  see,  as  anybody  would 
be." 

"That  explains  it.  I  heard  the  crutch  but  didn't  know 
what  it  was.  It's  what  gives  the  dance  its  originality — and 
charm." 

"I'm  glad,"  he  said  modestly.  "Anyhow,  it's  good  to  get 
it  out  where  I  can  hear  it.  And  on  this  piano.  I  never 
played  on  this  kind  before.  It  makes  all  the  rest  sound — 
like  brass." 

"It  is  rather  of  a  wonder-tone,  isn't  it?  I  had  a  man  out 
from  the  city  the  other  day  to  tune  it,  and  he  made  it  all  over 
new.  You  shall  come  and  play  on  it  every  day  that  Miss 
CPGrady  thinks  best." 

This  was  the  beginning.     When  she  watched  him  wheeled 


HANDICAPPED  237 

down  the  brick  walk  she  knew  that  a  fresh  interest  was  a*- 
hand,  but  she  didn't  dream  how  presently  it  was  to  absorb  her. 

"I  might  have  known,"  she  said  to  Rose,  a  week  later, 
"that  we  couldn't  have  the  boy  who  wrote  'Present  Arms!'  in 
the  house  without  striking  sparks.  Why,  he's  simply  a  crea- 
tive genius — in  his  line.  To-day  he  worked  out  an  idea  for  a 
duet  between  the  Poker  and  the  Fire  that  was  the  most  fas- 
cinating thing  you  ever  heard.  The  Fire  gets  to  burning 
dully,  you  see,  and  then  the  Poker,  cold  and  hard,  and  merely 
doing  its  duty — stirs  it  up.  The  Fire  doesn't  like  the  Poker, 
but  it  rouses  up  under  the  poking.  And  then,  by  an  accident, 
the  Poker  gets  left  in  the  fire  and  grows  red  hot  kself — 
until  somebody  comes  in  and  sticks  it  in  a  bucket  of  water. 
Sizz-z-z  !  I  assure  you  the  hiss  of  that  poker  takes  you  off 
your  feet." 

"Does  he  write  the  words  too?" 

"That's  the  trouble.  He's  not  very  good  at  that — pretty 
ordinary,  in  fact.  To  tell  the  truth — /  wrote  the  words!" 

Rose  looked  at  Mary.  The  expression  of  her  raised  eye- 
brows made  Mary  burst  out  laughing. 

"I  don't  know  when  I've  enjoyed  anything  so  much.  It 
wasn't  the  least  trouble.  It  was  all  in  the  music." 

"I  thought  words  had  to  be  written  first." 

"Not  with  Guy.  He'd  like  them  first — if  he  could  get 
them.  But  when  he  can't  he  does  the  thing  into  music,  and 
any  idiot  could  feel  the  words  that  go  with  them.  I  can, 
anyhow.  I  think  we'll  have  to  go  into  partnership.  We 
could  do  a  perfectly  corking  thing  together — if " 

She  paused,  frowning  a  little.  "I  think  after  all  I'd  rather 
not  explain.  I've  an  idea  what  I  might  do.  Let  me  thinlr 
it  out  before  I  talk  about  it." 

It  was  Mark  Fenn  with  whom,  a  day  or  two  later,  she  helJ 
a  consultation. 

"He's  wonderful,"  she  said,   "but  he — well— he  hasn't 


238  FOURSQUARE 

heard  the  things  he  ought  to  hear  to  put  an  edge  on  his  work. 
Everything  he  does,  clever  and  even  enchanting  as  it  some- 
times is,  has  the  same  peculiar  quality  of  the  music  halls — 
though  it's  of  the  very  first  class  of  them.  He  needs,  I  should 
say,  a  course  of  Schubert  and  Grieg — and  even  Beethoven. 
Of  course  they're  beyond  him — and  above  him — and  yet  I 
can't  help  feeling  that  he  could  appreciate  them.  Anyhow, 
I  think  they'd  perhaps  explain  to  him  something  I  can't 
quite — yet — get  over  to  him.  Hearing  folk-songs  would  be 
good  for  him,  too,  to  give  him  ideas  for  his  own  songs." 

Mark  was  as  interested  as  she  had  been  sure  he  would  be. 
"There's  no  great  music,  at  this  season,  anywhere  within 
reach.  Would  anything  you  and  I  could  play  for  him  reach 
him,  do  you  think?" 

"I'd  like  to  try.  Suppose  you  and  Harriet  come  over  this 
evening,  if  you  will;  I'll  have  Guy  up,  and  perhaps  Dr.  Reade, 
with  Rose,  and  we'll  make  a  little  party  of  it.  I  think  it  will 
impress  him  a  good  bit  more  if  one  or  two  others  are  there. 
Then  we'll  have  him  play  for  us,  if  he  will." 

"Good!  I'll  tune  up  at  once.  My  fingers  will  be  soft  for 
want  of  practice,  but  we  can  probably  make  certain  things  go 
pretty  well." 

There  could  be  no  doubt  but  that  they  did.  That  evening, 
Rose,  keeping  watch  without  seeming  to  do  so,  saw  that  some- 
thing was  happening  to  her  soldier.  She  had  him  out  of  his 
wheel-chair  and  established  in  a  corner  of  the  davenport  be- 
fore the  music  began,  where  he  could  see  the  faces  above  the 
keyboard  as  Mark  and  Mary  played  for  him.  The  Doctor 
couldn't  come  until  late,  so  they  began  without  him.  Every 
selection  they  made  was  for  a  purpose. 

"Grieg  and  McDowell  and  St.-Saens  first,"  Mary  had  de- 
creed, "and  then  if  he  bears  all  that  well,  perhaps  a  Beetho- 
ven prelude.  What  do  you  expect?  That  he'll  respond  to 
the  lighter  music  and  grow  bored  with  the  deeper?" 


HANDICAPPED  239 

"Hard  to  tell.  I'm  inclined  to  think  he'll  go  where  you 
lead  him — or  try  to,  at  least,  for  your  sake." 

"No,  no — not  at  all.  We've  been  most  impersonal 
through  all  our  talks  and  try-outs." 

Mark  had  smiled  skeptically  at  this.  Impossible,  he  said 
to  himself,  that  Guy  Carter  and  Mary  Fletcher  could  succeed 
for  an  hour  in  being  impersonal,  be  they  never  so  absorbed  in 
their  efforts  at  composition.  With  the  best  will  in  the  world 
to  give  the  lad  nothing  but  the  association  of  workman  with 
workman,  it  wouldn't  be  possible  for  Mary  to  make  herself 
austere  or  be  miserly  with  her  kindness.  As  a  matter  of  fact 
the  pleasure  she  couldn't  conceal  in  the  work  itself  was  bound 
to  be  the  greatest  of  all  attractions  to  the  young  composer. 
To  add  to  this  the  fascination  of  her  own  personality  was  to 
expose  him  to  a  well-nigh  irresistible  appeal.  Only  one  thing 
could  protect  him  and  hold  him  steady — and  that,  of  course, 
would  be  his  ardour  for  his  work. 

When  Dr.  Christopher  Reade  came  in,  the  evening  being 
well  along,  he  recognized  that  his  soldier  patient  had  been 
powerfully  wrought  upon  by  the  music  which  had  apparently 
just  ceased.  Mark  and  Mary  were  still  at  the  piano,  dis- 
cussing the  musical  score  before  them.  Rose  O'Grady  and 
Harriet  Fenn  were  holding  an  interested  conversation.  For 
the  moment  Guy  sat  alone  with  his  gaze  fixed  upon  the  two 
at  the  piano.  His  cheeks  were  very  flushed,  his  eyes  looked 
suffused;  the  doctor  didn't  need  to  feel  his  pulse — it  was  all 
but  beating  visibly  in  the  artery  at  his  fair  temples.  Reade 
sat  down  beside  him. 

"Enjoyed  it?"  he  questioned,  casually.  "Sorry  I  had 
to  miss  it." 

Guy  tried  to  speak  naturally,  but  his  voice  trembled  a 
little  in  spite  of  him.  "Never  heard  anything  like  it.  It 
made  the  stuff  I  know  sound  cheap." 

" Where  did  you  get  your  musical  training?" 


24o  FOURSQUARE 

"Didn't  have  any,  sir.  Picked  up  all  I  know — around 
hotels  and  theatres.  Never  heard  much  of  any  high-brow 
stuff— didn't  think  I'd  like  it." 

"Are  you  sure  you  don't  like  it  now  because  you  rather 
like  the  people  who  have  been  playing  it?" 

The  boyish  blue  eyes  met  the  keen  brown  ones  without 
evasion. 

"Sure — that  was  part  of  it,"  he  admitted.  "The  house 
always  falls  for  the  pretty  girl  even  if  she's  got  only  a  medium 
good  voice.  But — I  guess  I'd  have  liked  this  if  I'd  waked  up 
in  the  night  all  alone  and  heard  it.  Some  things  in  it  you 
couldn't  get  away  from." 

The  doctor  nodded.  "That's  it.  I  got  the  last  of  it  as  I 
came  up  the  drive.  It  was  Beethoven,  wasn't  it?" 

"That's  what  they  said.  I  never  knew  him — except  one 
thing  they  used  to  play  now  and  then  in  hotels.  This  was 
different,  though." 

"Yes,  I  don't  think  they  play  the  big  things  much  in  hotels 
So  this  seemed  really  big  to  you?" 

"You  bet  it  did.  There  was  one  time  I  didn't  know  but 
I'd  go  right  up  through  the  roof.  Then — I  looked  at  my  leg 
— Oh,  say, " — the  boy  broke  off  to  go  on  again  with  a  rush — 
"I  didn't  mean  ever  to  say  'leg*  again,  Doctor." 

"Never  mind.  The  point  is  you're  not  thinking  'leg* 
much,  these  days,  are  you?" 

The  curly,  fair  head  was  shaken  emphatically.  "You  bet 
I'm  not.  And — if  I  could  write  a  thing  like  that  Beethoven 
did,  I'd — why,  I'd  give  my  other  leg." 

"Did  you  know  that  all  the  later  years  of  his  life  he  was 
stone  deaf — so  he  couldn't  hear  his  own  music,  except  in  his 
mind?" 

Guy  stared  at  the  Doctor.  "That  a  fact?  Couldn't  hear 
a  note?  Why,  he  must  have  heard  something — to  write  it." 

"Not  a  note.     Not  the  faintest  echo  of  one." 


HANDICAPPED  241 

"Gee!"  There  was  a  long  moment's  silence.  Then  in 
an  awestruck  voice  Guy  murmured:  "I  guess  I  won't  say 
any  more  about  legs!" 

Dr.  Reade  smiled,  and  leaving  him  went  over  to  the  piano. 
"You've  made  a  great  impression,"  he  said  softly.  "But 
I  think  it's  impression  enough  for  to-night.  Suppose  you 
let  him  down  a  bit  now.  I  suppose  you're  giving  us  some 
thing  nice  to  eat  or  drink,  pretty  soon.  I'm  hungry  as  a  bear 
at  this  hour  always,  you  know." 

Mary  sprang  up.  "Of  course.  We  need  a  practical  person 
like  you  to  bring  us  back  to  earth." 

It  was  next  morning,  however,  that  she  got  the  first  result 
of  the  experiment  of  the  evening  before.  When  Guy  was 
brought  in  by  Rose,  Mary  took  pains  to  remain  out  of  sight 
and  sound.  He  was  left  quite  alone  and  for  a  long  time 
nothing  was  to  be  heard  of  him.  By  and  by,  however, 
tentative  chords  and  phrases,  lightly  touched,  began  to  make 
their  way  out  through  the  open  French  windows  to  the  long 
rear  porch  where  Mary  was  writing  letters  upon  a  leather 
pad  in  her  lap.  Now  and  again  she  lifted  her  head  to  listen. 
At  length  Guy's  idea,  whatever  it  was,  seemed  to  be  taking 
definite  shape.  Mary,  to  her  delight,  began  to  think  she 
could  recognize  in  it  a  reflection  of  certain  striking  and  beauti- 
ful passages  in  that  great  music  which  she  and  Mark  had 
played  for  him.  As  the  work  proceeded  she  put  down  her 
pad  and  pen  and  surrendered  herself  to  the  pleasure  of  listen- 
ing without  hindrance  to  the  evolution  of  a  new  phase  in 
the  boy's  creative  life. 

But,  finally,  silence  came  again,  and  lasted  so  long  that  she 
became  uneasy.  She  stole  to  the  open  window,  and  looked 
cautiously  past  the  long  chintz  curtains  swaying  slightly  in 
the  warm  breeze.  TO  her  dismay  she  saw  the  fair  head  down 
upon  one  bent  arm  resting  on  the  piano  rack.  Several 
sheets  of  paper  lay  scattered  on  the  floor  near  by.  He  might 


242  FOURSQUARE 

be  thinking  something  out,  she  reflected.  But  then,  even 
as  she  looked,  he  raised  his  head,  drew  his  hand  across  his 
eyes,  and  began  once  more  to  feel  for  the  notes  of  which  he 
seemed  not  to  be  sure. 

Mary  decided  it  was  time  to  give  him  help.  She  came  in 
strightforwardly  and  up  the  long  room,  to  pause  by  his  side. 

"It  sounds  to  me  as  if  you  were  trying  to  recall  something. 
Was  it  anything  you  heard  last  night,  and  can  I  play  it  for 
you?" 

He  looked  up,  and  she  saw  that  without  a  doubt  he  had 
been  crying,  though  now  his  eyes  were  dry.  He  spoke  with 
an  attempt  to  hide  his  feeling. 

"I'd  like  to  hear  anything  you'll  play  for  me.  I  don't 
know  what  it  is  I'm  trying  to  get.  I  lay  awake  with  it  most 
of  the  night — I  suppose  it  was  something  I  heard  you  and 
Mr.  Fenn  play." 

"I  wonder  if  it  might  be  this.  It  always  haunts  me  for 
days  after  I've  heard  it  again." 

Mary  gently  moved  the  wheel-chair  aside,  pulled  the  bench 
into  place  and  sat  down.  When  she  had  finished  she  turned 
to  Guy,  to  find  him  watching  her  with  hungry  eyes.  His 
look  startled  her,  though  she  wasn't  sure  there  was  in  it  more 
than  adoration  for  her  music. 

"That's  it,"  he  said,  his  eyes  dropping.  "I  never  heard 
anything  like  that  in  my  life.  It  got  me.  Everything  I 
ever  wrote  seemed  like  trash  to  me  beside  it." 

"What  you  wrote  isn't  trash  at  all.  It's  very  bright  and 
ingenious.  One  doesn't  expect  great  themes  in  modern  light 
musical  plays.  But  I  thought  if  you  could  know  some  of 
these  wonderful  things  the  masters  wrote  you'd  be  so  much 
the  richer  that  perhaps  you  could  put  something  of  it  into 
your  work." 

"I'd  like  to,"  he  answered,  humbly.  "But  I  guess  I  could 
never  do  anything  bigger  than  I've  done." 


HANDICAPPED  243 

"I'm  not  at  all  sure  you  couldn't.  I  thought  I  heard  you 
playing  something  that  sounded  different  from  anything 
you'd  done  before.  Could  you  play  it  for  me  now?" 

He  shook  his  head.     "I  don't  believe  so." 

But  he  was  looking  wistfully  at  the  keyboard  again,  and 
Mary  immediately  moved  him  back  into  place.  He  felt 
about  for  a  little,  then,  with  the  flushing  cheeks  which  always 
denoted  excitement,  played  a  few  bars.  His  left  arm  by  now 
was  doing  his  bidding  with  much  less  stiffness,  and  needed 
but  little  assistance  from  the  right. 

"Oh,  but  that's  very  lovely!"  she  cried  softly.  "That  has 
a  new  quality  in  it.  That's  not  what  I  played  for  you  just 
now.  Where  did  you  get  it?" 

"Maybe  I've  stolen  it." 

"  I  don't  think  so.  I  never  heard  it.  It  must  be  your  own. 
Oh,  please  play  it  again." 

He  did  so,  and  this  time,  evidently  under  the  stimulus  of 
her  presence  and  interest,  he  carried  it  further  than  before. 
She  sat  listening  breathlessly  to  the  evolvement  of  an  idea 
which  seemed  to  her  distinctly  beyond  and  above  anything 
which  he  had  yet  conceived.  After  a  time,  and  with  many 
pauses  and  workings  out  of  peculiar  and  rather  surprising 
harmonies,  he  carried  it  to  completion.  Finished,  it  was 
but  one  simple  theme,  yet  it  was  to  Mary  a  thing  quite 
perfect. 

She  sat  back  in  her  chair  and  tried  to  speak  quietly.  Never, 
that  she  could  remember,  had  she  been  so  interested  in  the 
work  of  another  or  so  anxious  to  be  of  use. 

"Please  write  that  down  at  once,  won't  you?"  she  urged. 
"  Don't  let  it  get  away." 

"It  can't  get  away.  I  can  never  forget  it — now.  You'd 
know  I  couldn't,  if  you  knew. — But,  of  course,  I'll- " 

He  stopped  abruptly,  hunting  about  for  the  stubby  pencil 
with  which  he  might  put  upon  paper  the  unskilled  musical 


244  FOURSQUARE 

hieroglyphics  of  his  own  which  only  he  could  read,  but  which 
would  make  secure  his  memory.  When  this  was  done  Rose 
had  come  for  him  and  his  hour  was  over. 

But  Mary  was  making  fresh  plans  for  him.  Searching  the 
newspapers  in  hope  of  rinding  something  within  reach,  she 
came  upon  news  of  a  great  May  festival  of  music,  in  a  city 
which  was  distant  less  than  a  hundred  miles.  With  eager 
eyes  she  scanned  the  programmes  for  each  day  and  evening  of 
the  five  days  devoted  to  the  event.  Illustrious  names  were 
there — singers,  violinists,  pianists,  soloists  of  high  distinction — 
and  backing  all  an  orchestra  of  world-wide  reputation.  It 
was  just  the  thing — and  she  would  take  them  all,  Guy,  Rose, 
Harriet,  Mark — even  Dr.  Reade,  if  he  would  spare  the  time 
— for  a  day  at  least. 

Rose  came  in  upon  her  while  she  was  telephoning,  catching 
the  last  of  her  instructions.  It  sounded  to  Rose  O'Grady  like 
the  ordering  of  a  young  queen. 

"Yes,  your  biggest  and  most  comfortable  car  will  do  nicely, 
and  I  want  a  chauffeur  who  can  be  trusted  to  come  back  over 
those  roads  at  night.  We'll  start  by  eight  in  the  morning. 
Yes,  there'll  be  six  of  us,  I  think.  Certainly — that  price  is 
quite  right.  And  remember — the  new  car — it's  really  a 
beautiful  one.  Thank  you — good-bye." 

Mary  turned,  jumped  up,  caught  Rose  by  the  shoulders 
and  whirled  her  about — or  came  as  near  whirling  her  as  one 
could  with  a  sturdy  figure  like  Miss  O'Grady's. 

"We're  all  going  to  the  May  musical  festival — for  a  full  day 
of  it.  We'll  have  a  delightful  trip,  in  that  really  stunning  new 
car  at  the  Blackmore  garage — you  and  the  Fenns  and  Guy 
and  I — and  do  you  suppose  the  Doctor  will  go  ?  I  want  him 
so  much!" 

"And  for  what  is  all  the  extravagance?"  Rose  inquired, 
surveying  her  ex-patient  with  amazement. 

"Oh,  Rosie!     Don't  pretend  you  don't  know!    To  fill  out, 


HANDICAPPED  245 

soldier  full  with  glorious  music,  of  the  best  there  is  in  the 
world." 

"Fill  him  full  with  music?  And  isn't  he  crammed  to  the 
eyes,  now — the  young  wonder  he  is?" 

"Yes — but  his  work  is  only  second  or  third  rate,  as  yet,  for 
lack  of  training.  Mr.  Fenn  and  I  can  give  him  only  a  shadow 
of  a  shade  of  the  real  thing.  Oh,  come — don't  look  so  dis- 
approving, sweet  Rosie  O'Grady!  I'm  not  going  to  hurt  the 
boy.  He  needs  every  bit  he  can  get." 

"Yes — and  then  he'll  go  bankrupt  when  he's  back  in  the 
world  again  and  away  from  such  as  you — if  there's  any  such 
as  you." 

"Rosie," — Mary  held  her  off  and  spoke  with  intense  con- 
viction— "you  know  and  I  know  that  some  things  are  worth 
going  bankrupt  for.  Only — he  won't  go  bankrupt.  If  he 
has  to  take  pain  along  with  happiness — or  after  it — he'll  only 
.Nave  the  bigger  treasury  in  his  heart  and  mind  to  work  with. 
The  boy's  a  genius,  in  his  way.  I  want  to  give  him  a  real 
chance.  Hearing  this  music  is  only  the  preliminary  to  a  plan 
I  have  for  him — oh,  such  a  plan,  Rose!  He's  going  to  do  the 
finest  thing  of  his  life  so  far,  and  it  will  be  worth  all  it  costs — 
be  sure  of  that." 

"I  hope  so." 

"I  know  so."  And  Mary  rushed  away  to  see  Harriet  Fenn 
and  give  her  invitation. 

When  Rose,  that  day,  had  Guy  Carter's  arm  under  her 
skilful  fingers,  working  upon  it  with  one  of  the  long  treat- 
ments which  were  slowly  but  surely  releasing  it  from  bondage, 
she  spoke  the  word  to  him  which  was  clamouring  for  utter- 
ance. With  each  day  that  had  gone  by  she  had  become  surer 
that  it  must  be  spoken. 

"Sonny,"  she  began,  "do  you  mind  a  thing  I  said  to  you 
when  I  first  took  you  to  the  big  house  on  the  hill?" 

"What  was  that,  Miss  Rose?"     But  the  arm  had  given  a 


246  FOURSQUARE 

twitch  beneath  her  fingers.  "About — not  thinking  myself 
as  good  as  the  place  I  was  going  to?  Don't  worry.  I  think 
less  of  myself  every  day." 

"Nobody  wants  you  to  do  that.  Think  as  well  of  yourself 
as  you  can — you've  every  right.  It  wasn't  that  I  was  re- 
membering. It  was — I  think  you  know.  And  I'm  a  bit 
afraid — the  warning's  doing  no  good." 

Guy  was  silent.     He  turned  his  head  away. 

"I'm  not  going  to  inquire  into  your  affairs,  lad.  It's  none 
of  my  business — that  I  know.  But  I  just  want  to  say  this  to 
you.  If  you  can  take  what  comes  to  you  and  be  thankful, 
and  let  it  make  you  bigger  and  better — and  not  eat  your  heart 
out  with  wanting  what  you  can't  have — it's  all  right.  You 
can  put  it  into  your  music,  maybe,  where  it'll  do  you  no 
harm." 

"Why  are  you  saying  this  to  me?"  Guy  was  trembling  a 
little  now.  "Have  I  said  or  done  one  thing  to — make  you 
think  I  was  a — fool?" 

"Not  a  thing — that  you  could  help.  And  I'm  not  blaming 
you.  You  wouldn't  be  human  if  you  could  be  with  such  and 
not  be  carried  away  with  what  you  see  and  hear.  I'm  just 
fearing  that  it'll  be  too  much  for  you,  Guy,  lad — this  party 
she  plans  for  you — and  when  you  hear  the  grand  music  she 
talks  about,  you'll — be  thinking  thoughts  that'll  break  your 
heart  with  the  ache  of  them." 

"I  don't  care."  His  tone  was  defiant.  "Let  me  think 
'em.  I'd  rather — than  not. — So  would  you — wouldn't  you? 
— than — not?  Even  if  you  never  had — what  you  wanted?" 

She  looked  at  him,  and  into  her  Irish  blue  eyes  came  a 
touch  of  mist.  She  shut  them  for  an  instant,  pressing  her 
lips  together,  and  Guy  noted  how  the  thick  lashes  met  and  lay 
upon  her  cheek.  But  when  the  lashes  were  raised  she  was 
smiling  again,  with  a  spirited  lift  of  her  round  chin. 

"That's  just  what  I've  been  telling  you,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  XV 

BEETHOVEN 

SYMPHONY  No.  9,  D  Minor,  Opus  125 

Ludvig  von  Beethoven 
Allegro  ma  non  troppo 
Scherzo:  molto  vivace 
Adagio  molto  e  cantabile 
Choral  Finale:  Schiller's  "Hymn  to  Joy." 

HAT  was  the  way  the  final  number 
of  the  evening  looked  on  the  pro- 
gramme which  was  afterward  put 
away  among  Mary  Fletcher's  choicest 
treasures.  It  was  beautifully  printed 
on  heavy  paper  of  quarto  size,  a  thin 
book  containing  the  full  programmes 
for  the  five  afternoons  and  evenings  of 
the  May  Festival,  and  illustrated  with 
photographs  of  the  soloists  and  of  the 
orchestra  conductor,  himself  among 
the  famous  of  the  world.  For  its  own 
sake  it  might  well  be  preserved  by 
all  music-lovers  who  turned  its  pages 
during  those  hours.  Even  Harriet 
Fenn,  who  of  all  Mary's  five  guests 
knew  least  wThat  it  was  which  she  had 
had  the  privilege  of  hearing,  laid  that 
programme  away  with  the  slim  pile 
of  such  mementoes  in  a  certain  desk 
drawer  at  home,  conscious  that  it  was 
worthy  of  its  honour. 
247 


248  FOURSQUARE 

Mary  had  heard  that  Beethoven  Ninth  Symphony  before, 
once  in  her  life,  under  circumstances  entirely  different.  With 
a  party  of  schoolgirls,  chaperoned  by  a  teacher,  boxes  of 
chocolates  in  their  laps,  subdued  whisperings  on  their  tongues, 
Mary  had  supposed  she  had  listened  to  the  greatest  music  in 
the  world.  Her  programme  had  so  informed  her,  and  her 
teacher  had  attempted  to  prepare  her,  with  the  rest,  for  the 
hearing  of  the  imperishable  masterpiece.  Though  at  certain 
points  in  the  rendition  she  had  experienced  something  ap- 
proaching the  thrill  she  knew  she  ought  to  feel,  for  the  most 
part  she  was  secretly  wishing  things  to  come  to  a  conclusion. 
It  was  really  only  when  the  climax  arrived,  at  the  very  end, 
with  chorus  and  orchestra  and  soloists  pouring  out  their 
utmost  in  the  "Hymn  to  Joy,"  and  the  audience  rising 
spontaneously  to  its  feet,  that  Mary  with  the  other  schooL 
girls  quite  understood  that  it  had  been  a  great  hour.  As  they 
later  emerged  into  the  street  they  were  saying  to  one  another, 
"Wasn't  it  perfectly  wonderful?"  So  it  had  been,  but  it 
was  more  than  doubtful  if  they  had  known  it.  Perhaps  Mary 
herself  was  the  only  one  who  even  dimly  comprehended  that 
they  hadn't  known  it,  or  guessed  the  reason  why. 

But  she  knew  now.  Between  that  day  and  this  had  lain 
experience  of  struggle  and  pain  and  life,  and  he  who  listens 
with  understanding  to  the  Ninth  Symphony  must  have  known 
these,  not  vicariously  but  for  himself.  Throughout  the 
marvellous  first  movement  she  sat  with  head  bent  and  eyes 
closed,  letting  the  waves  break  over  her,  every  nerve  strung 
to  tensity.  There  were  moments  when  she  felt  the  grandeur 
of  the  theme  unbearable,  when  she  lived  and  breathed  with 
the  composer  in  his  suffering.  The  words  of  Richard  Wagner 
interpreting  the  movement  printed  themselves  on  her  brain — 
oh,  yes — she  knew  all  about  it!  "Power,  resistance,  to  strive, 
to  long,  to  hope,  almost  to  attain,  again  to  vanish,  to  search  for 
anew,  to  struggle  again "  Small  wonder  that  in  the 


BEETHOVEN  249 

listening  she  lost  all  sense  of  time  and  space;  all  that  she  knew 
was  the  sounds  which  beat  upon  her  ears,  the  reaction  of  her 
whole  being  to  the  all  but  intolerable  stimulus  of  those 
anguished  violins. 

The  rest  was  easier  to  bear.  Relief  came  in  the  second 
movement,  peace  in  the  third.  With  the  beginning  of  the 
fourth  pain  cried  aloud  again — a  cry  of  disappointment — 
imperfect  understanding — it  made  one  realize  how  like  life 
it  all  was,  with  no  rock  upon  which  to  set  one's  foot.  But 
then  came  the  "Hymn  to  Joy,"  with  orchestra  and  chorus 
lifting  the  glorious  tones  to  the  vast  roof.  Once  again  Mary, 
with  an  audience  on  fire,  rose  to  her  feet;  tears  of  joy,  indeed, 
at  the  beauty  and  might  of  that  outburst  of  emotion,  filling 
her  eyes,  her  heart  beating  wildly.  Beside  her  rose  Mark 
Fenn,  and  on  her  other  side  Guy  Carter  was  being  helped  to 
his  feet  by  Rose.  The  boy  was  crying,  too,  trying  his  soldier 
best  not  to  sob.  Mary  put  out  one  hand  and  seized  his  and 
pressed  it  as  tight  as  she  could  for  the  convulsive  grip  his 
fingers  took  of  hers.  Then  she  looked  around  at  Mark  and 
met  his  steady  gray  eyes  and  saw  tears  there,  too.  Quite 
because  she  couldn't  help  it  her  other  hand  touched  his,  and 
found  instant  response. 

For  one  minute  the  three  stood  linked,  gazing  toward  the 
orchestra,  while  the  final  glory  of  the  "Hymn"  surged  into 
their  souls,  unconscious  of  all  the  world  outside  that  magic 
space.  Then  it  was  all  over;  the  applause,  thunderous, 
deafening,  began;  and  the  hands  dropped  apart.  Such  hours 
come  only  now  and  then  in  lifetimes,  and  each  of  the  three 
recognized  that  this  had  been  supremely  one  of  those.  If  it 
had  been  raised  to  its  highest  power  by  the  human  com- 
panionship throughout  the  experience,  only  one  of  the  three, 
perhaps,  was  fully  conscious  of  that  significance. 

In  the  memory  of  each  of  them  the  long,  swift  drive  home 
through  the  spring  night  remained  as  a  part  of  the  whole,  not 


150  FOURSQUARE 

to  be  forgotten.  There  was  little  talk.  Harriet  Fenn  was 
frankly  sleepy;  while  she  had  greatly  enjoyed  the  less  austere 
parts  of  the  programmes  of  the  afternoon  and  evening,  the 
Ninth  Symphony  had  been  rather  an  ordeal.  She  had  had  a 
heavy  week  of  teaching;  she  had  risen  at  daybreak  to  make 
ready  for  the  trip;  she  had  been  unable  to  translate  into 
terms  comprehensible  to  herself  the  final  tremendous  com- 
position; she  was  glad  to  be  able  to  sit  back  now  in  her  corner 
of  the  car  and  watch  out  of  half  closed  eyes  the  passing  loveli- 
ness of  the  spring  night. 

Dr.  Reade  and  Rose  O'Grady  were  also  in  a  quiet  mood; 
two  musical  programmes  of  unusual  length  had  been  rather 
more  than  they  had  been  able  to  assimilate  with  comfort.  Both 
were  capable  of  much  enjoyment  at  such  sources,  yet  the 
practical,  busy  lives  they  led  made  them  less  susceptible  to 
the  appeal  of  that  which  they  had  heard  than  the  three  of  the 
party  to  whose  eyes  the  "Hymn  to  Joy"  had  brought  the  un- 
controllable tears. 

But  with  Mary,  Mark,  and  Guy,  though  they  hardly  spoke 
throughout  the  drive,  absence  of  speech  denoted  anything 
rather  than  apathy,  or  even  the  quite  natural  fatigue  follow- 
ing the  long,  full  day.  Each,  in  his  or  her  own  way,  was 
keyed  to  a  high  pitch,  from  which  it  was  impossible  as  yet  to 
relax.  In  their  ears  the  music  of  that  last  hour  was  still 
sounding;  every  curve  of  the  moonlit  road  brought  fresh 
scenes  to  recall  poignantly  the  memories  of  the  sombre  themes 
heard  in  the  first  movement  of  the  Symphony,  or  of  the 
exquisitely  melancholy  yet  peaceful  ones  of  the  third.  And 
the  "Hymn  to  Joy!"  To  each  of  the  three  the  remembrance 
of  the  radiant  and  soul-stirring  motif,  appearing  now  and 
then  in  brief  ecstatic  phrasings,  foreshadowing  the  final  out- 
burst, then  swelling  into  its  full  and  overwhelming  glory,  was 
something  to  be  cherished  with  a  jealous  ardour,  lest  it  fade  all 
too  soois- 


BEETHOVEN  251 

The  last  mile  was  covered,  the  car  flew  into  the  silent  town. 

"Well,"  said  Harriet,  sitting  up  abruptly,  the  first  to  speak 
in  many  miles,  "here  we  are!  I  don't  know  when  I've 
ever  driven  at  night  before.  Everybody's  sound  asleep — 
hardly  a  light  anywhere.  I  suppose  this  is  the  way" — she 
turned  to  Dr.  Reade — "you  see  it  pretty  often." 

"Rather  often.     I  like  to  see  it — once  I'm  out." 

"It's  dreaming  awake  I've  been  since  we  left  the  city," 
Rose  O'Grady  said,  in  a  voice  quite  unlike  her  own.  "  Dream- 
ing awake." 

As  he  left  her  Guy  Carter  gave  Mary  an  icy  hand. 

"Were  you  cold  on  the  drive,  Guy?"  she  asked  him  solici- 
tously. 

"I  didn't  know  I  was  in  the  car,  I  guess. — No,  I  wasn't 
cold,  thanks." 

Mark  sent  Harriet  on  ahead  up  their  gravel  path  to  the 
brown  house,  giving  her  the  key,  and  crossed  the  lawn  to  meet 
the  car  as  it  came  sip  to  the  Graham  porch.  Rose  jumped  out 
first  and  was  off  into  the  house,  leaving  Mary  to  say  good- 
night to  Aer  last  guest.  But  instead  of  saying  it  both  lin- 
gered. 

"Somehow  I  don't  want  this  day  to  end,"  Mary  said. 
The  two  stood  looking  off  over  the  silent,  sleeping  village 
where,  here  and  there,  a  belated  light  shone. 

"It's  been  a  great  day."  Mark  lifted  his  face  to  the  May 
night  sky.  "One  can  go  on  a  long  while  on  the  memory  of 
such  a  day — and  evening.  I  was  thinking,  on  the  way  home, 
that  if  I  didn't  have  to  teach  to-morrow  I'd  be  spendthrift 
enough  to  build  a  little  fire  and  sit  by  it  the  rest  of  the  night 
and  remember  that  Ninth  Symphony." 

"I'd  like  to  do  that!"  There  was  a  happy  laugh  in  Mary's 
voice.  "Go  home  and  to  sleep,  and  I'll  do  it  for  you  by  my 
fire.  7  don't  have  to  teach  to-morrow.  There  are  only  two 
or  three  hours  to  daylight,  anyhow.  I  shouldn't  sleep  if  I 


25*  FOURSQUARE 

tried.  I'm  going  to  do  it!  /'//  keep  faith  with  the  *  Hymn  to 
Joy/" 

"You  can't  afford  to  be  a  spendthrift.  I  can.  If  any- 
body's to  keep  faith  with  Beethoven  to-night  I'll  be  the  one." 

They  looked  at  each  other,  smiling.  Neither  could  be 
quite  sure  that  the  other  was  serious. 

"Are  we  a  pair  of  sentimentalists?  I  don't  care  in  the 
least!  I  knew  I  was  capable  of  it  but  I  didn't  think  you 
were!" 

"You  never  can  tell,"  Mark  acknowledged,  "what  follies  a 
sober  fellow  like  me  can  be  capable  of,  when  music  like  that 
gets  into  his  brain.  In  all  my  life  I've  never  been  so  stirred 
and  exalted,  I  think.  I'd  like  to  prolong  the  splendour  of  it. 
I  don't  call  that  sentimentalism.  Whatever  anybody  calls 
it — I'm  going  to  sit  up." 

"So  am  I!" 

They  didn't  argue  it.  Both  knew  that  if  Harriet  or  Rose 
O'Grady  got  wind  of  the  extraordinary  compact  they  would 
prevent  its  fulfillment.  If  they  heard  of  it  afterward  they 
would  deride  it.  Even  as  the  pair  delayed  on  the  porch  they 
saw  Harriet  come  to  the  lighted  doorway  of  the  brown  house 
and  look  searchingly  across  the  lawn.  But  the  two  figures 
were  in  shadow.  Harriet  went  back,  leaving  the  door  open. 

"Acts  speak  louder  than  words.  That  one  says:  'Come, 
come,  brother — don't  you  know  it's  two  o'clock? "  Mary's 
low  voice  was  sheer  music.  For  some  reason  the  thought 
of  the  coming  shared  vigil  was  filling  her  with  an  extraor- 
dinary pleasure.  The  idea  was  preposterous,  of  course, 
according  to  people  like  Harriet;  somehow  that  made  it  all  the 
more  alluring! 

"  If  I  don't  go  Harry'll  come  over  after  me.  Will  you  look 
out  of  your  window  somewhere  between  now  and  morning 
and  see  my  study  light  burning?" 

"Of  course  I  will.     And  if  you  look  out  of  vours  you'll  see 


BEETHOVEN  253 

the  light  of  my  drawing-room  fire.  I'll  play  the  motif  of  the 
*  Hymn  to  Joy '  just  as  the  dawn  conies  up.  If  your  windows 
are  open  perhaps  you'll  hear  it." 

"They'll  be  open — all  the  time." 

Mark  went  away  across  the  lawn.  Mary  ran  up  to  her 
room.  She  found  Rose  there,  waiting. 

"It's  into  bed  you  go,  and  to  sleep.  You're  more  weary 
than  you  know." 

"I'd  like  to  sit  up  till  morning,"  dared  Mary,  pulling  the 
pins  out  of  her  hair  first  of  all,  that  she  might  secure  a  veil 
behind  which  to  laugh  covertly  at  her  stern  young  guardian. 

"I've  no  doubt  you  would;  it's  just  the  kind  of  folly  you'd 
enjoy.  And  then  to-morrow — 'Rose,  why  do  I  feel  so  in- 
dolent?' Come — slip  out  of  the  wickedly  costly  clothes  you 
would  wear  to-day,  and  go  to  sleep  thinking  sensible  thoughts, 
not  the  crazy  kind  the  music's  put  into  you." 

"How  do  you  know  it's  put  them  in?"  The  heavy  brown 
locks  fell  over  bare  white  shoulders  now,  for  Rose's  fingers 
worked  fast. 

"One  can  see  it  in  the  eyes  of  you — and  of  that  boy  Guy — 
and  even  the  Professor's  a  bit  daffy,  him  that  has  the  steady 
head  if  anybody  has.  I  won't  say  I  didn't  lose  my  own  now 
and  then — with  the  fiddles  singing  all  together — thinking  of 
France  and  my  soldier  boys — and — my  old  mother — and 
other  things.  But  I  know  enough  now  to  go  to  bed — and  do  it 
right-side-to — not  taking  down  my  hair  while  my  frock's  on!" 

"Oh,  Rosie  O'Grady — what  a  bark!  But  your  bite's  noth- 
ing at  all."  Laughing,  Mary  made  a  gesture  of  futility.  In 
spite  of  herself  her  garments  had  been  slipping  from  her, 
under  Rose's  quick  hands,  and  one  of  fine  linen  and  lace  had 
dropped  over  her  head  and  slid  into  place. 

"Say  your  prayers  now,  and  thank  the  good  Lord  it  oc* 
curred  to  Him  to  invent  sleep — especially  for  the  hare' 
brained  like  yourself." 


254  FOURSQUARE 

Two  minutes  later  her  lights  were  out,  a  hand  had  patted 
her  shoulder,  and  she  was  left  smiling  to  herself  in  the  dark. 
She  knew  well  enough — or  thought  she  knew — that  Rose  her- 
self would  be  in  bed  in  two  minutes  more,  and  asleep  in  five. 
She  lay  waiting,  stretching  out  deliciously,  and  admitting  to 
herself  that  she  was  extremely  comfortable  and  that  Rose  had 
upon  her  side  all  the  rules  of  common  sense.  Nevertheless, 
at  the  end  of  what  seemed  a  safe  period  she  rose  cautiously, 
dressed,  and  stole  downstairs  to  the  silent,  shadowy  drawing- 
room. 

She  softly  kindled  a  fire,  drew  up  a  chair  beside  it,  then 
went  to  one  of  the  long  windows  facing  toward  the  small 
brown  house  beyond  the  hedge,  and  standing  behind  the 
curtains  looked  across.  At  first  she  thought  there  was  no 
light  in  the  study  windows,  and  suffered  a  pang  of  dis- 
appointment. Had  Harriet,  then,  been  as  ruthless  as  Rose 
and  sternly  driven  her  brother  to  his  bed?  Nonsense! — 
Mark  wasn't  that  sort.  As  she  gazed,  her  eyes  discerned  the 
slight  rise  and  fall  of  a  dim  light  beyond  the  two  windows — 
open,  as  she  now  discovered.  It  was  plain  enough  that  there 
was  a  fire  upon  the  study  hearth,  and  no  lamplight.  Softly 
she  opened  her  own  window,  and  set  the  two  glass  doors  of  it 
back  against  the  wall.  The  night  was  mild,  her  fire  would  be 
all  the  warmth  she  needed — and  somehow  those  open  study 
windows  across  the  lawn  gave  her  the  sense  of  being  com- 
panioned. She  knew  as  well  as  if  she  could  see  him  that 
Mark  was  sitting  before  his  fire,  looking  into  it — perhaps 
drawing  musingly  on  his  pipe — perhaps  not.  She  wondered 
a  little  about  that,  and  decided  that  being  a  man  he  would 
have  the  pipe,  but  that — possibly,  as  he  thought  of  the  Ninth 
Symphony,  he  might  forget  to  keep  it  alight! 

She  went  back  to  her  seat  by  her  own  fire.  It  didn't  occur 
to  her  to  wish  that  Mark  were  here,  on  the  other  side  of  the 
fireplace,  talking  vrith  her,  or  even  sitting  in  silence.  She 


BEETHOVEN  255 

distinctly  didn't  wish  that;  there  was  something  about  the 
keeping  of  this  extraordinary  tryst  which  actual  companion' 
ship  in  the  flesh  would  have  spoiled  for  her.  No — it  wasn't 
a  tryst  with  each  other  they  were  keeping,  really;  it  was  one 
with  the  great  music  they  had  heard;  the  whole  point  of  their 
doing  this  thing  at  the  same  time  was  that  for  them  both  it 
was  a  sacred  hour,  and  each  must  keep  it  alone  or  miss  its  full 
beauty.  Yet  there  was  undeniably  a  heightening  of  that 
beauty  by  the  thought  that  another  human  being  felt  in  the 
same  way  about  it;  it  was  one  of  those  discoveries  of  close 
similarities  of  tastes  and  feelings  that  make  one  feel  less  alone 
in  the  world,  and  arouse  a  joyful  surprise  at  the  happy  fact. 
That  Mark  Fenn,  sanest  and  safest  of  beings,  according  to  all 
that  people  knew  of  him,  could  care  to  do  this  thing  which 
would  be  reckoned  more  or  less  erratic  by  ordinary  sensible 
people,  gave  Mary  Fletcher  the  keenest  pleasure.  Nothing 
that  he  could  have  done,  in  the  course  of  everyday  existence, 
could  have  so  made  him  seem  akin  or  so  interested  her  in  him- 
self. 

It  was  a  short  vigil.  By  May  light  comes  early,  and  it 
seemed  to  Mary  that  she  had  been  looking  into  the  fire  and 
"dreaming  awake,"  as  Rose  had  said — yes,  even  practical 
Rose  had  said  that,  earlier  in  this  night  of  nights — but  an 
hour  when,  on  an  excursion  to  the  window  which  faced  the 
east,  she  discerned  the  first  hint  of  coming  dawn.  She  stood 
watching  it  until  she  was  sure  that  the  low  clouds  were  begin- 
ning to  flush  a  very  little,  then  she  went  to  the  piano.  She 
put  her  foot  on  the  soft  pedal,  and  sat  wondering  if  Rose 
would  hear. 

Her  hands  were  trembling  a  little;  it  was  astonishing  how 
great  a  matter  it  seemed  it  was  going  to  be  to  strike  those 
first  low  chords.  Over  and  over  again  she  softly  fingered 
them,  until,  suddenly  realizing  that  the  faint  light  was  actually 
beginning  to  steal  into  the  dim  room,  she  determinedly 


256  FOURSQUARE 

pressed  the  keys.  Once  begun,  however,  she  forgot  every- 
thing except  the  wish  to  bring  back  to  her  own  ears  and  to 
those  which  must  be  listening  across  the  way  the  memory 
of  a  wonderful  hour.  So  she  played  on,  bringing  out  the 
phrases  with  muffled  power,  until  the  room  rang  softly  with 
the  basic  melody  of  the  "Hymn  to  Joy"  and  her  own  vivid 
imagination  supplied  all  that  orchestra  and  voices  had  lent 
to  the  perfect  whole.  As  for  the  imagination  across  the 
way 

As  her  hands  dropped  into  her  lap,  and  she  sat  with  fast- 
beating  pulses  looking  at  the  shadowy  line  of  the  keyboard, 
something  fell  beside  her  upon  the  bench.  A  little  bunch 
of  white  violets  among  green  leaves,  fresh  and  dewily  cool, 
lay  there  gleaming  softly  in  the  dusky  light.  She  caught 
them  up,  breathing  in  their  fresh  fragrance,  looking  toward 
the  window.  Nobody  was  to  be  seen,  and  nothing  could 
have  made  her  run  to  the  window  to  see  whose  was  the 
retreating  figure — she  knew  it  could  be  but  one.  Besides — 
there  was  a  big  bed  of  white  and  purple  violets  beneath  the 
study  windows;  no  need  to  wonder  how  he  had  got  them  for 
her.  It  was  a  charming  token,  and  if  it  was  undeniably 
romantic,  all  the  better  for  that.  No  surprise  could  have 
been  greater  than  to  have  Mark  Fenn  attest  his  faithfulness 
to  the  compact  of  the  night  in  this — to  one  of  Mary's  temper- 
ament— perfectly  logical  and  fitting  way.  There  was  really 
nothing  else  he  could  have  done,  she  reflected,  unless  to 
throw  a  note  in  at  her — and  that  would  have  been  common- 
place beside  a  bunch  of  white  violets  with  the  freshness 
of  the  May  night  upon  them.  Altogether,  their  arrival 
satisfied  her  desire  to  know  that  he  had  heard  her  music — and 
it  really  didn't  matter  what  happened  next! 

What  she  confidently  expected  to  have  happen  next  was  the 
sound  of  Rose's  step  upon  the  stairs,  but  in  this  she  was  dis- 
appointed. Now  that  it  was  all  over,  and  the  daylight 


BEETHOVEN  257 

momentarily  growing  brighter,  while  the  dying  fire  flickered 
to  a  smoulder  on  the  ashy  hearth,  she  rather  longed  to  be 
properly  punished.  Nothing  would  now  have  pleased  her 
better  than  to  turn  from  sentiment  to  gayety  and  flout 
Rose's  strictures  on  her  folly  with  a  merry  laugh.  She 
mounted  the  stairs  without  much  stealth,  hoping  against 
hope  to  hear  Rose's  door  open  and  Rose's  delightfully  stern 
yet  mellow  voice  with  its  touch  of  brogue  challenge  her  on 
the  top  step.  But  all  remained  silent.  There  was  nothing 
left  to  do  but  to  return  to  her  room,  close  the  door,  put  the 
violets  in  water,  and  slip  out  of  her  garments  and  into  bed. 

Sleep  did  not  come  quickly,  though  she  was  conscious  now 
that  she  was  thoroughly  tired.  When  it  did  come,  it  wa? 
deep  and  long.  And  when  it  was  over  she  had  her  wish.  She 
woke  to  find  a  pencilled  slip  of  paper  pinned  to  the  blanket 
on  her  bed,  and  recognized  with  satisfaction  Rose's  hand- 
writing, round  and  curly,  like  herself.  The  little  travelling 
clock  on  her  table  near  by  marked  the  hour  of  eleven.  Rose 
had  been  long  gone  to  her  work,  but  she  had  left  this  de- 
cidedly tangible  reminder  of  a  personality  to  be  reckoned 
with. 

There's  many  kinds  of  craziness  in  the  world,  but  few  to  equal 
that  which  leaves  the  windows  and  doors  downstairs  open  all  night 
and  plays  music  to  the  stars — and  the  windows  next  door — and  all 
sensible  folk  that  are  trying  to  sleep.  Get  up  now,  and  take  a  bath 
cold  enough  to  bring  the  blood  out  of  your  wild  brain — and  don't 
forget  the  exercises  that  I'm  hoping  may  some  day  bring  you  back 
to  a  proper  balance.  There's  few  like  you  in  the  world — and  that's 
lucky,  because  such  foolishness  is  catching,  and  it's  the  whole  night 
I've  lain  awake  myself,  minding  the  music  that  pulled  the  heart  out 
of  my  body  and  pinned  it  on  my  sleeve — where  it  listened  to  your 
"Hymn  to  Joy"  and  cried  big  blithering  tears.  And  that's  what 
comes  of  sentiment — making  everybody  unfit  for  good  hard  work! 
So  no  more  of  it,  says  Rose  O'Grady — and  I'm  glad  I  had  what  I 
had,  and  thank  you  kindly — and  don't  do  it  again. 


CHAPTER  XVI 
WHITE  FIRE 


N  HIS  office  the  editor  of  The  Centre- 
piece was  looking  over  a  copy  of  the 
June  issue,  fresh  off  the  press.  It 
was  a  number  in  the  preparation  of 
which  he  had  taken  a  peculiar  pleas- 
ure, for  the  reason  that  it  contained 
the  most  gratifying  "find"  that  had 
come  his  way  in  many  moons.  Since 
the  day  that  Sibley  Langley's  manu- 
script had  reached  his  desk,  endorsed 
by  his  most  discerning  reader — 
" Different!"  with  a  big  dash  under 
the  word — and  that  particular  reader 
wasn't  often  taken  off  her  feet — he 
had  been  eager  for  the  day  when  he 
might  mail  a  copy  of  the  magazine 
containing  that  amazingly  shining 
piece  of  work  to  Mary  Fletcher.  It 
had  been  rushed  into  print  as  fast  as 
the  illustrator,  tearing  his  hair  over 
the  imperative  order,  could  make 
the  pictures  for  it.  It  now  appeared 
leading  all  the  rest,  a  tribute  to 
the  fact  that  the  joy  in  editorial 
offices  over  a  perfectly  new  author 
whose  work  promises  that  something 
"different"  and  distinctive  so  anx- 
258 


WHITE  FIRE  259 

iously  and  often  despairingly  sought,  is  as  real  as  any  satis- 
faction over  the  arrival  of  copy  from  the  hand  of  the  already 
famous. 

Kirkwood  dashed  off  a  note  to  go  with  the  magazine, 
which  he  had  ordered  sent  to  Miss  Fletcher  in  the  outgoing 
mail. 

I'm  counting  on  your  congratulations!  There  never  was  a 
more  generous  reader  of  other  people's  work  than  you,  and  your 
eyes  will  rest  as  gloatingly  as  mine  on  this  drop  out  of  the  skies  of 
"Sibley  Langley."  Of  course  she's  a  woman,  and  a  young  one,  at 
that.  She's  a  wonder,  and  too  good  to  be  true;  but  she  is  true, 
and  there's  more  of  her  to  come.  We've  made  a  big  departure  in 
showing  a  photograph  of  her  in  our  list  of  contributors,  but  we've  sev- 
eral more  manuscripts  of  hers  already  in  hand,  and  so  know  this  first 
story  isn't  just  a  flash  in  the  pan.  I  wish  you  two  could  meet— 
I  can  imagine  no  pair  more  congenial.  To  tell  the  truth,  it  seems 
to  me  there's  a  certain  quality  in  her  work  which  reminds  me  of 
you — a  quality  which,  of  course,  is  only  in  its  incipiency  with  her, 
while  in  you  it  is  developed  to  its  highest  power.  But — here's 
hoping!  I  know  you'll  hope  with  me. 

The  letter  added  a  friendly  paragraph  on  other  lines,  but 
made  no  further  allusion  to  Mary  as  an  author.  It  ended 
with  warm  wishes  for  the  coming  summer  and  the  desire  that 
before  very  long  she  would  feel  that  she  could  see  the  writer — 
quite  outside  his  editorial  capacity.  It  asserted  that  he  was 
ever  faithfully — and  devotedly — hers;  and  the  signature 
was  written  with  a  dash  which  suggested  haste  and  tension. 

Leaving  the  office,  magazine  and  letter  already  despatched, 
Kirkwood  went  out  of  his  way  to  stop  at  a  small  shop  where 
an  old  Frenchman,  was  accustomed  to  do  the  finest  work  in 
hand  binding  and  tooling  known  in  the  city.  He  worked 
slowly  and  took  few  orders,  but  those  who  could  secure  his 
services  were  considered  privileged  persons.  Among  his 
leathers  Kirkwood  found  him,  and  spent  an  hour  cajoling 


260  FOURSQUARE 

him  into  accepting  a  small  order  which  was  to  be  executed 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  in  selecting  the  material  and  style 
for  the  commission. 

"This  is  a  little  priceless  jewel,  you  see,  Le  Maire,"  Kirk- 
wood  said,  as  he  finally  turned  over  the  short  manuscript. 
"When  it  comes  from  your  hands  I  want  it  to  look  the 
part." 

The  Frenchman  nodded.  "Je  comprend,"  he  replied. 
"It  is  pairfectly  clear.  Monsieur  will  haf  nossing  but  pair- 
fection.  I  execute  nossing  but  pairfection." 

Kirkwood  laughed.  "Exactly!  We  understand  each 
other.  I  will  call  once  a  week  till  you  give  me  the  order — and 
I  will  pay  well  for  as  much  haste  as  possible." 

Le  Maire  shook  his  head.  "I  know  not  ze  word,"  he  said. 
" Pairfection — and  haste;  zey  go  not  togezzer." 

"I  didn't  mean  haste,"  Kirkwood  amended,  smiling.  "I 
meant  undelayed  effort — prolonged  to  completion.  If 
Le  Maire  executes  the  work  nothing  short  of  perfection  is 
possible — that  I  understand." 

In  due  course  he  received  Mary's  acknowledgment  of  his 
letter  and  the  accompanying  magazine.  He  had  looked  for 
it  for  some  time  before  it  came,  yet  was  not  surprised  at  the 
delay.  It  thanked  him  very  pleasantly  for  introducing  her 
to  the  work  of  Sibley  Langley  and  praised  the  sample  of  it  he 
had  sent  her  with  a  fair  degree  of  warmth.  Certainly  noth- 
ing was  really  lacking  in  that  praise — and  yet,  to  Kirkwood, 
knowing  Mary's  tendency  to  burst  into  flame  over  fine 
craftsmanship,  the  full  enthusiasm  of  appreciation  he  had 
looked  for  wasn't  quite  there.  Had  he  looked  for  it  ?  Rather 
had  he  looked  for  the  lack — had  a  keen  eye  for  it — and  re- 
joiced when  he  thought  he  found  it. 

"Just  a  bit  jealous,  Mary?"  he  questioned  her  imaginary 
self  before  him,  and  puffed  harder  on  the  pipe  he  was  smoking, 
with  a  satisfied  twist  in  the  corner  of  his  expressive  lips. 


WHITE  FIRE  261 

"Well — you  need  to  be  made  a  bit  jealous,  my  dear.  You're 
settling  down  too  comfortably  into  taking  care  of  yourself. 
If  we  don't  look  out  you'll  be  taking  up  gardening,  or 
thoroughbred  puppies,  or  some  other  absurd  activity.  And 
then  what?  If  you're  really  well  again — and  you  must  be, 
by  now — it's  the  part  of  a  friend  to  stir  you  up." 

So  he  wrote  back,  almost  by  return  mail,  that  he  was 
coming  her  way.  Her  letter  had  indicated  that  the  next  time 
that  happened  he  might  stop  off  to  see  her.  He  had  some- 
thing to  show  her — something  he  had  obtained  for  her — 
which  he  could  send  to  her  by  mail,  if  she  preferred,  but — it 
would  cost  him  keen  disappointment  if  he  might  not  bring  it 
to  her  in  person.  Of  course — this  really  went  without  saying 
— it  had  nothing  to  do  with  her  work.  It  was  just  a  thing 
he  had  wanted  to  do  for  her,  and  now  that  he  had  done  it  he 
wanted  to  put  it  into  her  hands  himself — as  a  small  boy,  hav- 
ing laboured  over  the  drawing  of  a  locomotive,  desires  to  hand 
it  round  and  receive  congratulations.  Please  ? 

It  was  the  first  day  of  June  that,  having  received  the  de- 
sired permission,  John  Kirkwood,  piloted  by  Eliza,  walked 
through  the  wide  hall  of  the  old  Graham  house  to  the  open 
door  at  the  back  which  gave  upon  the  rear  porch.  Standing 
beside  the  housekeeper  he  looked  with  interest  off  over  the 
garden  with  its  box  borders  and  its  masses  of  early  summer 
flowers,  to  the  orchard  beyond.  He  hadn't  realized  how 
inviting  it  all  was,  up  here  in  Mary's  country  home. 

"Miss  Mary  thought  she'd  be  back  before  you  got  here," 
Eliza  explained.  "There's  a  path  down  through  the  or- 
chard— you'll  find  a  fence  and  gateway  at  the  back  of  it  and 
a  bit  of  wood.  It's  a  pretty  walk,  and  she  often  takes  it. 
You  might  walk  along  and  meet  her,  if  you  like.  Or  you  can 
sit  here  on  the  porch.  It's  quite  warm  to-day." 

The  broad  rear  porch  was  a  pleasant  enough  place,  for  rugs 
and  wicker  chairs  and  table  made  of  it  an  outdoor  living-room 


262  FOURSQUARE 

upon  which  the  long  windows  of  the  drawing-room  opened 
invitingly.  But  it  had  no  charms  for  the  editor  compared 
with  those  of  going  to  meet  his  hostess.  He  set  off  at  once 
through  the  box  borders,  carrying  his  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
stopping  to  pluck  a  sprig  of  the  box  to  stick  in  his  buttonhole. 
He  had  passed  through  the  orchard  and  proceeded  for  some 
distance  along  a  wooded  path  before  he  caught  sight  of  th«> 
figure  he  was  looking  for,  and  hastened  his  steps  to  meet  it. 

He  had  been  thinking  a  good  deal  of  Sibley  Langley  on  the 
way  up  in  the  train.  She  had  been  a  "find,"  not  only  on 
account  of  the  thing  she  could  do  with  such  freshness  and 
vivacity,  but  because  she  was  distinctly  attractive  of  person 
to  the  jaded  editor's  fancy.  It  wasn't  often  that  the  two 
attributes  met  so  intriguingly  in  one.  Miss  Langley  was  a 
young  New  Yorker,  just  out  of  Columbia,  living  in  a  small 
apartment  with  her  mother,  and  Kirkwood  had  gone  toj«e,e 
her  there  after  reading  that  first  manuscript.  She  was  a  tiny 
creature,  with  velvet-brown  eyes,  masses  of  corn-coloured 
hair,  and  a  picturesque  way  of  dressing.  Exceedingly  quick 
of  wit,  daring  of  speech  and  manner,  yet  distinctly  able  to 
keep  herself  and  everybody  else  in  hand — Kirkwood  had 
thus  far  enjoyed  to  the  full  the  contact  with  her  brought  about 
by  her  successful  appeal  to  his  professional  judgment.  He 
had  made  the  most  of  the  relation  of  editor  to  contributor  to 
give  himself  and  Miss  Langley  some  satisfying  hours. 

Her  work,  as  yet,  couldn't  touch  Mary  Fletcher's — to 
himself  he  frankly  admitted  that.  But  Mary  had  several 
years  the  advantage  of  her  in  age  and  experience;  and  it  might 
easily  be,  he  told  himself,  that  with  a  physical  vitality  which 
seemed  never  to  fail  her,  Sibley  Langley  could  overtake  and 
pass  Mary  on  a  road  where  endurance  as  well  as  equipment 
tells  heavily  in  the  long  run.  Mary  had  gone  to  pieces 
early — too  early;  he  hadn't  been  able  to  forget  that  last  inter- 
view he  had  had  with  her;  it  had  left  upon  his  mind  the  fore- 


WHITE  FIRE  261 

boding  that  she  might  never  again  be  the  workman  she  had 
been.  He  was  sorry,  first  and  foremost  from  the  editorial 
point  of  view.  He  was  still  more  sorry  as  the  memory 
which  recalled  the  painful  interview  so  vividly  also  brought 
back  persistently  to  his  mental  vision  the  picture  of  loveliness 
she  had  presented  when  she  first  came  into  the  house  from 
her  drive  with  Fenn — before  she  caught  sight  of  Kirkwood 
himself.  His  heart  had  grown  warm  within  him  at  sight  of 
her.  It  was  the  remembrance  of  that  unexpected  sensation 
which,  after  all,  had  brought  him  now  to  see  her.  Sibley 
Langley,  with  all  her  stimulating  vivacity,  hadn't  been  able  to 
efface  the  impression  of  a  magnetic  personality  that  Mary  had 
always  made  upon  him.  As  he  walked  along  the  woods  patk 
to  meet  her  he  was  aware  of  being  agreeably  keyed  to  antick 
pation. 

But  he  wasn't  prepared  for  the  Mary  he  now  saw  coming 
toward  him  round  a  bend  in  the  path.  Possibly  if  he  had 
known  a  little  more  of  Rose  O'Grady  he  would  have  under- 
stood that  it  was  she  who  was  mainly  responsible.  Those 
increasingly  cold  baths,  those  exercises,  not  to  mention  early 
hours  and  much  sleep — all  had  done  their  work.  The  girl 
who  came  to  meet  him  on  the  path — she  looked  a  girl — was 
not,  couldn't  be,  the  frail  though  interesting  creature  whom 
two  months  before  he  had  had  to  deal  with  as  half  invalid  and 
wholly  under  the  domination  of  a  mental  obsession  about 
his  influence  over  her.  This  was  a  vigorous  young  person, 
who  came  along  with  a  rapid,  free  step,  her  face  like  a  ripe 
peach  with  outdoor  life,  her  eyes  clear  and  steady,  everything 
about  her  proclaiming  that  in  all  her  days  she  had  never  been 
so  well  or  so  strong,  or  so  full  of  the  joy  of  living.  The  very 
crisp  lines  of  the  apricot  linen  she  wore  seemed  a  part  of  the 
changed  picture.  When  he  had  last  seen  her  she  had  been 
wearing  soft  and  clinging  folds  of  a  dull-blue  silk! 

He  stood  still  in  the  path,  hat  in  hand,  and  waited  for  her 


264  FOURSQUARE 

to  come  up  to  him,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  motionless  by  the 
sight  of  her.  But  she  was  smiling  at  his  sober  face.  Her 
hand  was  extended  with  frank  and  friendly  greeting. 

"Good  morning,  Mr.  John  Kirkwood,  and  it's  glad  I  am 
to  see  you,  as  Rosie  O'Grady  would  say.  The  top  of  the 
morning  to  you — and  it's  on  top  of  the  world  I  am — and  I 
hope  you  are  the  same." 

"I  am,  indeed,  to  see  you  like  this.  The  Irish  brogue  is 
contagious,  is  it? — as  well  as  the  good  health  of  the  nurse. 
You're  almost  as  rosy  as  Miss  O'Grady  herself,  as  I  recall 
her.  And" — he  added  in  his  own  mind —  "a  deal  more  en- 
chanting to  look  at." 

He  stood  regarding  her  intently,  and  her  eyes  met  his 
without  evasion.  It  was  she  who  now  showed  solicitude. 
"Dear,  dear! — but  how  worn  the  editor  looks!  I  haven't 
seen  a  man  from  the  Big  Town  for  so  long  I'd  forgotten  that 
harried  expression.  How  could  you  stop  rushing  about  long 
enough  to  come  up  here  into  the  calm  country  where  the 
clocks  give  us  ten  sleeping  hours  a  night?  You  look  as  if  it 
would  do  you  good  to  have  a  nap  this  minute.  Come  along 
back  to  the  porch  and  I'll  put  you  on  the  couch  till  lunch 
time." 

"You'll  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  The  sleeper  was  hot  as 
blazes,  that's  all,  and  I  probably  show  a  bit  of  hang-over  from 
the  cindery  night.  Half  an  hour  in  this  heavenly  place  will 
make  me  fit  as  a  fiddle.  I'll  admit  I'd  like  to  find  a  shady 
spot  and  sit  down  in  it — with  you." 

She  nodded.  "I've  some  rustic  benches  in  the  orchard. 
I  put  them  there  when  the  apple  and  peach  blossoms  were 
out.  Talk  of  heavenly  places — you  should  have  seen  it 
then." 

She  led  the  way.  Kirkwood's  anticipation  of  the  hour  to 
come  mounted  with  each  step  beside  her.  Her  dark  hair, 
carefully  dressed  so  that  each  soft  wave  of  it  was  lustrous 


WHITE  FIRE  265 

with  the  effect  of  health  which  was  all  about  her,  the  curve 
of  her  richly  hued  cheek,  the  gesture  of  her  half-bare  arm 
brown  with  tan — every  aspect  of  her  gave  him  delight.  He 
thought  again — and  for  the  last  time  for  a  considerable  period 
— of  Sibley  Langley,  and  knew  that  he  had  been  mistaken 
in  thinking — or  rather  in  trying  to  think — that  he  had  found 
in  her  just  such  another  as  Mary  Fletcher.  There  was  no  sucK 
another  in  the  world — certainly  not  while  he  was  with  her. 
And  he  had  never  thought  that  of  Sibley  Langley,  even 
while  he  was  with  her. 

He  was  conscious,  as  they  sat  down  upon  the  bench  in  the 
orchard,  that  he  was  about  to  do  a  thing  which  afforded  him 
peculiar  satisfaction.  Two  days  earlier  he  had  gone  to  the 
book-bindery  and  had  brought  away,  in  a  silk-covered  case 
of  its  own,  the  slim  book  upon  which  the  Frenchman  had 
lavished  his  imagination,  and  which  he  had  given  into  Kirk- 
wood's  hands  solemnly,  as  if  with  a  rite.  The  editor  had 
praised  him  with  words  which  had  made  the  artist  workman 
flush  with  pride  and  happiness  and  respond  eagerly:  "It 
is  pairfect,  Monsieur,  though  I,  who  did  it,  say  so.  Me,  I 
never  did  a  more  finished  little  piece.  Take  it — and  let  the 
hands  often  caress  it — it  is  better  so,  for  the  leather." 

He  put  off  for  a  little,  however,  the  giving  of  his  gift,  be- 
cause for  the  moment  it  was  quite  enough  to  be  with  her. 
Although  he  had  spent  many  hours  in  her  society  over  her 
work,  or  on  the  expeditions  in  search  of  material  which  they 
had  taken  together,  it  was  a  new  sensation  to  be  sitting  with 
her  in  such  a  place  as  this  country  apple  orchard,  withdrawn 
from  the  world,  all  June  about  them.  The  very  sound  of  hei 
voice  was  a  felicity;  he  could  hardly  believe  it  the  same  voice 
which  he  had  last  heard  speaking  tremulously  of  unhappj 
things. 

"What  am  I  doing  to  fill  my  time?" — She  repeated  hi» 
question. — "Oh,  a  thousand  things.  I  never  was  so  busy." 


266  FOURSQUARE 

"I  suppose  you  don't  gather  the  eggs — or  milk  the  cows? 
Perhaps  you  pick  the  strawberries?  I  came  past  a  big 
patch  of  them.  Of  course  you  go  out  with  a  basket  and  cut 
flowers  for  the  house  every  morning?" 

She  laughed.  "You  have  a  great  idea  of  activities  in  the 
country,  haven't  you  ?  Strawberries  and  flowers — yes,  when 
I  have  time — which  I  mostly  don't.  I  go  for  a  horseback 
ride  every  morning — after  a  class  I  attend  at  the  college. 
Then- 

"A  class!  That's  interesting.  In  what?  Domestic 
science?" 

"In  dramatic  expression  and  play-writing.  It's  wonder- 
fully interesting.  I  went  at  first  to  take  a  young  wounded 
soldier  friend  of  mine,  but  now  I  go  for  my  own  sake." 

Kirkwood's  eyebrows  lifted  quizzically.  "A  young  wounded 
soldier  friend!  Very  romantic.  Are  you  going  to  write  a 
play  between  you?" 

"I  hope  so.  In  fact,  we're  working  at  a  set  of  songs  which 
might  fit  into  a  musical  play.  He's  a  composer.  Did  you 
happen  to  see  *  Present  Arms!'?" 

"What?"  The  eyebrows  drew  together  in  a  frown.  "Of 
course  you  don't  mean  you're  working  with  the  composer  of 
'Present  Arms!'" 

"Yes — isn't  it  great  luck?  He's  a  wonder  and  he's  going 
to  be  more  of  a  one.  He's  frightfully  crippled,  you  see,  and 
so  he  needs  to  be  doing  something  to  take  his  mind  off  him- 
self." 

"I've  HO  doubt  working  with  Mary  Fletcher  does  it. 
But — see  here,  Mary.  I  thought  you  were  forbidden  all 
work  for  a  long  time." 

"This  isn't  work,  it's  the  most  delightful  play  I  could  find." 

He  considered  it.  "I  can't  quite  imagine  a  course  at 
Newfane  College " 

"Newcomb "  she  corrected  him. 


WHITE  FIRE  267 

"Newcomb — I  beg  its  pardon.  You  see,  it's  never  been 
on  my  map.  I  can't  imagine  a  course  in  play-writing  there 
anything  but — a  sort  of  kindergarten." 

"Can't  you?     The  instructor  is  Mr.  Perry  Gilfillan." 

Now  he  was  astonished  indeed.  He  couldn't  believe  it. 
Perry  Gilfillan  needed  no  introduction,  of  course,  but  it  didn't 
seem  quite  possible  that 

Mary  was  laughing.  "But  he's  here,  and  you  must  admit 
I  should  be  losing  my  chance  if  I  didn't  belong  to  his  classes. 
You  see,  if  you  just  could  grasp  the  idea  that  such  people  as 
Mr.  Gilfillan  can  sometimes  be  found  in  places  outside  of 
Harvard  and  Columbia!  To  be  sure,  he's  here  only  for  this 
year,  but  that  doesn't  mean  that  there  aren't  other  men  here 
just  as  well  worth  while  as  he,  if  they  aren't  as  famous. 
President  Wing — why — you  must  know  who  William  West- 
cott  Wing  is.  He's  the  author  of  a  group  of  books  on  psy- 
chology that  are  known  everywhere." 

She  had  him  there.  He  was  bound  to  know  such  books; 
but  it  hadn't  occurred  to  him  that  their  author  could  be  one 
and  the  same  with  the  head  of  the  small  and — to  him — ob- 
scure college.  He  was  rather  more  impressed  by  these  two 
facts  than  he  was  willing  to  admit,  and  presently  he  had 
steered  the  conversation  to  grounds  safer  for  himself.  Mary 
had  begun  to  tell  him  a  list  of  famous  graduates  of  Newcomb 
— he  didn't  want  to  hear  them. 

"I  shall  begin  to  feel,  if  you  keep  on,"  he  said  in  the  rally- 
ing tone  she  well  remembered,  "that  I  can  never  amount  to 
anything  myself  because  I'm  only  Princeton." 

"It's  a  handicap,"  she  admitted  gaily,  "but  you  may  be 
able  to  live  it  down." 

He  drew  his  thin  parcel  from  his  pocket.  "Before  you 
have  me  cornered  any  more  hopelessly,  I'm  going  to  show 
you  what  I  came  to  bring  you.  I  really  don't  think  I  can 
wait  much  longer,  anyhow." 


268  FOURSQUARE 

"I'm  so  eager  to  see  it." 

He  looked  at  her.  "Are  you?  But  you'll  be  willing  to 
wait  while  I  tell  you  a  bit  about  it." 

"Of  course."  She  settled  herself  in  her  corner  of  the 
rustic  seat. 

His  manner  had  changed.  He  spoke  gravely.  "I  hap- 
pen to  know  a  man,"  he  began,  "a  few  years  out  of  college — 
ten  years  out  of  preparatory  school — who  in  the  course  of  a 
talk  with  me  on  some  material  he  had  which  he  thought 
would  make  a  good  article,  showed  me  some  letters  from 
the  headmaster  of  that  school.  They  seemed  to  him  very 
remarkable  letters.  When  I  read  them  I  felt  as  he  did 
about  them — except  that  he  had  known  and  loved  the  head- 
master, and  I  hadn't.  But  they  certainly  were  remarkable 
letters — he  hadn't  overrated  them.  They  were  written  after 
his  expulsion  from  the  school,  and  they  were  intended  to 
prevent  his  going  off  the  track  with  anger  and  disappointment 
and  recklessness.  Imagine  the  conditions.  It  had  been 
absolutely  out  of  the  question  to  retain  him  in  the  school; 
he  had  been  found  out  in  an  act  so  flagrant  that  it  would  have 
been  a  tremendous  injury  to  both  himself  and  the  other  boys 
to  keep  him.  It  would  have  been  against  all  laws  of  justice. 
The  school  was  well  rid  of  him  and  his  sort.  And  yet — this 
headmaster,  who  was  one  of  the  greatest  of  his  kind,  couldn't 
let  him  go — he  had  to  follow  him  with  these  letters.  They 
did  what  they  were  intended  to  do — kept  him  from  going 
to  smash.  When  I  had  finished  reading  them  I  thought  of 
you.  I  thought  you  might  like  to  have  them  in  permanent 
form.  In  the  nature  of  the  case  they  couldn't  be  given 
publicity,  the  story  was  too  well  known.  But  for  private 
preservation — well — here  they  are." 

Mary  was  staring  at  him.  Her  eyes  now  fell  to  the  parcel 
in  his  hands,  which  he  was  taking  from  its  wrappings.  The 
blue  silk-covered  case  came  to  view,  containing  the  slender 


WHITE  FIRE  269 

book.  Kirkwood  drew  this  out  and  put  it  into  Mary's 
hands. 

"I  wanted  very  much,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone,  "to  do 
something  for  you.  This  was  the  best — the  very  best — 
thing  I  could  find  to  do."  And  he  laid  the  book  in  her  lap. 

She  sat  looking  down  at  it  in  silence  and  wonder.  Out- 
wardly it  was,  as  far  as  a  book  may  be,  like  some  fine  jewel. 
The  deep  lapis  blue  of  the  leather  which  bound  it,  the  ex- 
quisite hand  tooling  of  the  designs  which  formed  its  border 
and  backing,  gold  and  rose  and  green  in  hues,  made  of  it 
something  very  perfect  to  look  at.  From  the  centre  of  the 
cover  shone  in  small  lettering  the  title:  "Letters  of  Arthur 
Rand  Fletcher,  Headmaster,  to  an  ex-Schoolboy." 

With  fingers  whose  touch  caressed,  Mary  opened  the 
covers  on  the  inner  facing  of  blue  silk  bordered  with  gold 
which  gave  the  last  touch  of  sumptuous  detail  to  the  binding. 
Within,  heavy  white  pages  with  wide  borders  met  her  eye, 
but  there  was  no  printing  upon  them.  Instead,  there  ap- 
peared a  perfect  facsimile  of  the  letters  themselves,  photo- 
graphed From  the  original  and  then  engraved  upon  copper — 
the  costliest  mode  of  reproduction  known  to  art.  Altogether, 
it  was  impossible  not  to  recognize  that  John  Kirkwood  had 
lavished  upon  the  small  volume  every  consideration  in  his 
power.  Mary's  own  initials  upon  the  centre  of  the  back 
cover  of  the  book  seemed  to  sign  and  seal  its  delivery  into 
her  hands.  Here  was  a  gift  unique — one  of  which  there  could 
be  no  duplicate  in  the  world.  That  the  daughter  of  Arthur 
Fletcher  should  not  be  touched  by  such  a  tribute  was  in- 
conceivable. 

"Would  you  like  to  read  them  by  yourself?"  questioned 
Kirkwood.  "Or  might  I  have  the  great  happiness  of  reading 
inemtoyou?  It  shall  be  just  as  you  say.  Only  I  want  you 
jo  know  that  never  have  I,  in  all  my  life,  read  anything  that 
to  stirred  me,  or — did  more  to  make  a  better  man  of  me. 


270  FOURSQUARE 

Still — perhaps  you  would  like  to  read  them  alone.  Forgive  me 
for  suggesting  the  other." 

"Oh,  but  I  think  you've  earned  the  right  to  read  them  to 
me.  Please  do,"  she  said,  quickly,  and  put  the  book  into  his 
hands. 

Before  he  began  to  read  Kirkwood  described  to  her  briefly 
what  the  schoolboy,  now  a  man  of  his  own  age,  had  become; 
how  he  had  reached  a  position  of  honour  and  influence;  and 
how  he  ascribed  it  all  to  these  six  letters  which  had  reached 
out  after  him,  boyishly  breathing  fire  and  brimstone  against 
the  school  which  had  dismissed  him,  and  had  turned  his 
youthful  cursings  into  tears  of  repentance.  He  couldn't  go 
back,  but  he  could  go  to  another  school,  as  the  letters  urged, 
and  could  there  retrieve  himself.  This  he  had  done.  He 
had  done  it  so  well  that  there  had  been  another  letter,  which 
he  would  share  with  nobody,  of  which  he  was  more  proud 
than  of  any  recognition  which  had  ever  come  to  him. 

"And  that's  saying  a  good  deal,"  Kirkwood  finished,  "for 
he's  made  a  name  for  himself  already.  I  wish  I  could  tell  it 
to  you,  but  both  he  and  I  felt  that  the  letters  would  have 
more  value  for  you  if  they  remained  impersonal,  and  you 
could  treasure  them  solely  for  the  new  and  shining  light  they 
shed  on  your  father's  character.  It  needed  no  more  lustre, 
yet — the  lustre  is  here." 

And  he  began  to  read. 

Throughout  the  reading  she  remained  motionless.  It 
lasted  for  not  more  than  ten  minutes;  there  were  six  letters 
in  all,  of  varying  lengths.  Kirkwood  read  them  reverently 
and  with  tellingly  restrained  emphasis — it  could  not  have 
been  better  done. 

As  a  revelation  of  the  great  heart  which  had  inspired  them, 
of  the  sensitive,  understanding  spirit  which  had  conceived 
them,  of  the  virility  of  the  man  who  sought  so  to  impress  his 
beliefs  and  ideals  upon  this  wild  young  nature  which  he  had 


WHITE  FIRE  271 

sent  against  his  will  away  from  him,  that  it  might  not  alto- 
gether escape  his  lasting  influence,  the  letters  were  human 
documents  of  rare  worth.  As  an  example  of  sheer  genius  in 
dealing  with  youth  and  audacity,  so  as  not  to  alienate  but  to 
capture  and  hold  it  against  all  odds,  they  were  marvels  of 
wisdom  and  diplomacy.  But  to  Mary  they  meant  more  than 
even  these.  The  personality  of  Arthur  Fletcher  seemed  im- 
prisoned beyond  loss  in  the  letters,  as  by  almost  no  memorial 
she  had  of  him.  They  had  been  struck  off  at  white  heat 
under  intense  grief  and  longing  to  save  the  soul  of  a  boy — and 
they  had  saved  it,  they  could  hardly  do  otherwise.  What  a 
record  to  have  had  preserved  to  his  daughter! 

When  Kirkwood  had  finished  he  added  no  word  of  com- 
ment— to  have  done  so  at  the  moment  would  have  been  a 
desecration.  It  was  a  long  while  before  Mary  spoke,  and 
while  he  waited  he  refrained  from  looking  at  her.  But  when 
her  smothered  words  came  at  last  he  turned  to  see  the  look 
in  her  face — he  couldn't  miss  that. 

"You  were  right,"  she  said,  with  difficulty.  "I  didn't 
know  such  letters  were  ever  written,  though  I  always  thought 
my  father  wrote  the  most  wonderful  letters  in  the  world.  But 
nothing  like  these — nothing  like  them.  Oh — I  can't  thank 
you — I  can't!" 

"I  am  thanked,"  he  answered  simply. 

He  sat  watching  Arthur  Fletcher's  daughter  pass  warm 
and  loving  fingers  over  and  over  the  blue  of  the  leather  and  the 
gold  of  the  inscription,  as  if  she  were  somehow  touching  her 
father's  hand.  The  editor's  heart  had  never  been  so  warm 
with  the  best  that  was  in  him  as  in  this  hour.  This  thing 
that  he  had  been  inspired  to  do  for  her  had  broken  down  the 
barrier  between  them,  he  felt  sure.  It  was  the  sort  of  thing 
to  take  hold  of  her  imagination,  to  call  forth  her  gratitude, 
as  well  as  her  recognition  of  his  sensitiveness  to  that  which 
would  mean  much  to  her.  He  had  been  entirely  sincere  in 


272  FOURSQUARE 

his  admiration  of  the  surpassing  beauty  and  manly  valour  of 
those  letters;  in  all  his  experience  he  had  never  come  upon 
anything  to  touch  them;  it  was  his  sincerity  in  making  them 
into  this  appealing  gift  which  she  was  bound  to  recognize 
and  appreciate. 

Presently  they  returned  to  the  house  and  had  luncheon 
there,  with  Rose  O'Grady.  Learning  from  Mary  on  the 
previous  day  that  the  editor  was  expected,  Rose  had  said 
with  a  little  twist  of  her  Irish  mouth: 

"It's  playing  with  fire  you  are,  is  it?  Well,  just  keep  a 
couple  of  pails  of  water  handy — and  don't  wait  till  you  get  a 
conflagration  before  you're  throwing  them  on.  I'm  not  your 
nurse  now;  I  can't  be  keeping  folks  off  with  my  two  fists." 

"He's  just  an  old  friend,  Rose — not  my  collaborator  any 
more,  you  know.  There's  nothing  to  fear  from  having  him 
come  now  that  I'm  myself  again.  There  are  no  sentimental 
relations  between  us — there  never  have  been." 

"Well,  confidence  is  a  good  thing,"  Rose  admitted.  "I'm 
glad  you've  plenty  of  it.  You  may  need  it  all.  As  I  said — 
I'm  not  your  nurse  now.  You'll  best  be  minding  that.  It's 
a  handy  thing,  now  and  then,  to  have  someone  at  hand  to 
stick  a  thermometer  under  an  old  friend's  tongue  and  prevent 
speech." 

Mary  had  laughed  at  this,  and  had  told  Rose  she  was  by  no 
means  to  fail  her  at  luncheon  time  on  the  morrow. 

"I  might  have  Mr.  Fenn  over  too,  to  balance  the  table," 
she  had  reflected. 

Whereat  Rose  had  grinned  and  shaken  her  head.  "To 
balance  the  table,  is  it?  More  likely  to  unbalance  it,  Mary 
dear.  Who  wants  to  see  the  two  of  them  passing  the  time  of 
day  to  each  other — and  little  more  ?  No — keep  them  apart 
— that's  my  advice.  They  care  nothing  for  each  other's 
company — you  can  be  sure  of  that." 

Mary  had  taken  her  by  the  shoulders.     "Stop  talking  as  if 


WHITE  FIRE  273 

they Why,  I  won't  have  it!  Neither  of  them  is  anything 

but  a  good  friend.  They've  no  possible  reason  to  dislike  each 
other." 

"Haven't  they?  Faith,  men  are  queer  creatures.  Under 
some  circumstances  they  dislike  each  other  for  less  reason 
than  a  pair  of  eyes  and  a  voice  like  Mary  Fletcher's.  You'll 
never  see  them  two  walking  down  the  street  arm  in  arm,  you 
know — so  don't  be  looking  for  it. — And  I'll  not  have  time  to 
change  my  uniform,  to  come  to  your  table,  so  don't  be  looking 
for  that,  either." 

Rose  in  the  crisp  white  of  her  uniform  was  a  pleasant  sight, 
nevertheless.  She  was  on  her  best  behaviour,  too,  as  she  met 
the  editor  on  the  shaded  rear  porch,  where  luncheon  was 
served.  She  saw  him  now  at  his  best;  she  had  to  acknowledge 
to  herself  that  she  had  seldom  heard  cleverer  or  more  enter- 
taining talk.  In  high  content  over  the  success  of  his  presen- 
tation, Kirkwood  laid  himself  out  to  be  the  guest  who  gives 
as  much  as  he  receives,  and  he  kept  his  two  companions  on 
their  mettle  to  respond  to  him. 

When  the  hour  was  over  and  Rose  gone,  however,  Kirk- 
wood's  mood  appeared  to  change.  He  grew  grave  and  rather 
silent,  and  presently  suggested  that  he  and  Mary  return  to 
the  bench  in  the  orchard.  It  was  a  charming  spot,  he  said, 
and  the  furthest  possible  remove  from  the  type  of  sophisti- 
cated environment  to  which  he  was  too  used.  He'd  like  to 
remember  that  orchard. 

So  it  was  the  rustic  bench  under  the  gnarled  old  trees  which 
was  the  scene  of  a  fresh  crisis  in  Mary's  life — not  the  sort 
against  which  Rose  had  seemed  to  warn  her,  but  one  as  signi* 
ficant  as  any  which  she  had  yet  met. 

"You  wrote  me  very  satisfyingly,"  Kirkwood  began  rather 
suddenly,  "of  your  liking  for  the  work  of  our  new  contributor. 
Having  said  all  that  as  agreeably  as  you  would  say  it,  I'd 
very  much  like  to  know  your  real  opinion  of  her." 


274  FOURSQUARE 

Mary  looked  at  him,  to  find  his  suddenly  piercing  gaze 
fixed  upon  her.  As  a  matter  of  fact  she  had  never,  in  all 
these  years,  become  quite  accustomed  to  meeting  the  direct 
glance  of  those  eyes;  she  had  always  wanted  to  evade  it. 
Just  what  it  was  which  disturbed  her  she  had  no  notion;  but 
the  fact  remained.  The  sensation  had  always  been,  as  it 
was  now,  of  an  acuteness  of  perception  which  amounted  to 
mind  reading.  In  any  case,  she  felt  that  she  couldn't  escape 
answering  by  evasions  which  would  put  off  a  man  of  a  dif- 
ferent sort. 

Therefore  she  considered  a  little  before  she  spoke,  her  eyes 
upon  the  book  of  her  father's  letters  which  she  had  brought 
with  her  again.  "I  did  give  you  my  honest  opinion,"  she 
said.  "I  felt,  with  you,  that  she  was  a  '  find.'  I  didn't 
wonder  you  were  rejoicing.  Her  originality  is  delicious} 
her  style  is  remarkably  finished,  at  the  same  time  that  it 
seems  spontaneous.  Altogether "  But  here  she  paused, 

"Yes,  it's  the ;'  altogether '  I  want,"  declared  Kirkwood. 
"Or  rather,  the  *  nevertheless '  which  I  judge  it  will  be,  if 
you're  honest." 

"Do  you  want  to  drive  me  to  criticism?" 

"Exactly  that.  I  know  you  must  have  it.  She's  young, 
you  know — she'll  grow,  I  expect.  Making  allowance  for  her 
youth — what  is  it  you  find  lacking?" 

"Nothing." 

He  hadn't  expected  that.  Neither  did  he  quite  believe 
it.  His  look  bored  deeper.  "You  can't  quite  mean  that?" 

"I  mean  just  that.  You  must  remember  you're  asking  me 
to  judge  her  on  a  very  insufficient  basis.  But,  judging  by 
that  one  story,  which  took  you  off  your  feet,  she  has  all  you 
are  looking  for." 

Kirkwood  got  up  from  the  bench  and  took  a  turn  up  and 
down  the  uneven  turf  of  the  orchard,  hands  in  his  pockets. 
When  he  paused  again  before  Mary,  who  sat  looking  at  him 


WHITE  FIRE  275 

with  a  sort  of  serene  content  with  her  own  verdict  mingled 
with  a  little  amusement  at  his  apparent  disconcertion,  he 
spoke  abruptly. 

"You're  a  wonder.  I  thought  from  your  letter  about  Sib- 
ley  Langley  that  you  were  only  human  after  all.  I  thint 
now  you  must  be  superhuman." 

"Indeed — why?     Can  no  woman  appreciate  another?" 

"Yes,  but  she  invades  your  field.     Don't  you  see?" 

"Let  her  invade  it.  I  don't  mind,"  asserted  Mary,  smil- 
ing up  at  him. 

A  little  stung,  Kirkwood  determined  upon  a  frankness  he 
hadn't  been  sure  whether  to  employ,  in  the  degree,  at  least, 
which  he  now  felt  possible. 

"Mary,"  he  asked,  watching  her  closely,  "will  you  permit 
me  to  mention,  for  business  purposes,  and  for  just  a  moment 
a  matter  we  discussed  when  I  saw  you  last?" 

"Your  book?" 

"  Your  book.  Would  you  be  willing  to  have  Sibley  Lang- 
ley  finish  it?" 

The  colour  rushed  into  her  face,  which  had  had  no  lack  of 
it  before.  But  she  continued  to  meet  his  gaze  steadily. 

"You  consider  it  my  book,  though  it's  your  idea?" 

"Absolutely  yours.  I  agreed  to  destroy  it,  if  you  wished, 
didn't  I?  Do  you  still  wish  that?  I  can't  look  at  you  and 
not  know  that  you've  completely  recovered  from  the  state 
of  mind  you  were  in  at  that  time.  You  don't  want  me  to 
treat  you  as  an  invalid  now?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "Certainly  not.  I  can  hardly  be* 
lieve  now  that  I  could  be  so  weak  and  irrational.  Say  what 
you  wish.  But — you  can  hardly  expect  me  to  be  willing  to 
have  another  hand  finish  work  which  I  began  ?" 

"No — I  don't  wish  it — nor  ask  it.  But,  Mary — it  was  a 
splendid  beginning.  You  have  no  idea,  I  know,  what  work 
you  did.  A  night  or  two  ago  I  sat  up  till  two  in  the  morning 


276  FOURSQUARE 

to  go  over  the  ten  chapters  you  finished.  For  a  first  draft 
they're — well — they're  marvellous.  It's  a  crime  not  to  go  on. 
I  say  it  for  your  own  sake — believe  me — far  more  than  for 
my  own.  That  book  will  make  you  famous.  Without  un- 
due pressure,  working  only  as  you  wanted  to,  devoting 
another  whole  winter  to  it,  if  you  needed  that  much  time " 

He  went  over  the  ground  while  she  listened.  He  saw  to 
his  relief  that  there  were  no  evidences  in  her  face  or  manner 
that  a  shred  of  her  former  hysteria  on  the  subject  remained 
to  harass  her.  She  seemed  to  be  considering  the  matter 
with  perfect  self-possession.  Her  colour,  indeed,  was  still 
vivid — it  was  an  exquisite  cheek  at  which  he  gazed  as  he 
talked.  He  had  taken  his  seat  beside  her  again,  and  she  sat 
looking  straight  before  her,  no  longer  meeting  his  eyes.  He 
used  every  art  of  persuasion  he  knew,  and  then  rested  his  case. 

Mary  got  up  and  went  a  few  steps  to  lean  against  the 
trunk  of  an  apple  tree,  facing  him,  her  hands  boyishly  thrust 
into  the  sash  of  her  tunic.  Kirkwood  walked  around  behind 
the  bench  and  stood  facing  her,  his  arms  crossed  upon  the 
high  back.  The  attitude  of  both  was  reminiscent  of  past 
hours  of  discussion  over  plans  for  the  book,  when  neither 
could  remain  quietly  sitting,  but  must  range  about  bodily 
as  well  as  mentally,  in  search  of  ideas.  Mary  had  said  once 
that  she  didn't  think  there  was  any  article  of  furniture  in  the 
living-room  of  her  apartment  that  hadn't  been  used  to  sup- 
port elbows,  during  the  cogitations  of  the  collaborators. 

Now,  as  she  stood  looking  at  the  ground,  her  lips  opened 
once  or  twice  as  if  speech  were  upon  them;  then  closed  again. 
Finally  she  lifted  her  eyes  and  met  Kirkwood's.  This  time 
she  did  not  let  her  own  shift  from  his  until  the  thing  was 
said. 

"If  I  can't  do  what  you  ask,"  she  said,  "it's  because  you 
yourself  have  driven  the  last  nail  in  my  resolution  not  to  do 
it." 


WHITE  FIRE  277 

"What!" 

"I  want  you  to  know,"  she  went  on  in  a  level  tone,  "that 
ever  since  I  was  myself  again — and  somehow  I  think  I'm 
rather  more  than  myself  now — I've  been  thinking  about 
that  book.  Not  in  the  morbid  way  I  was  doing  when  you 
came  up  before — that's  all  like  some  frightful  nightmare, 
slipped  away  into  the  past  so  far  I  can't  believe  I  ever 
dreamed  it.  But  thinking  of  it — with  longing.  As  far  as 
my  ability  to  work  is  concerned,  I  never  was  so  fit.  I  could 
finish  the  book  in  a  dozen  flying  leaps — I  know  I  could. 
And  I'd  like  to  do  it. — I  mean — if  I  can  make  you  under- 
stand— with  one  side  of  me  I'd  like  to  do  it.  And  I'd  like — 
to  see  your  face  when  I  had  done  it!" 

His  face  at  the  moment  was  certainly  a  study  in  expres- 
sions. With  all  his  experience  in  concealing  his  emotions, 
he  was  revealing  now  both  eagerness  and  mystification. 

"Of  course,"  she  continued,  with  a  little  rueful  smile, 
"being  a  woman,  I  was  instantly  jealous  of  your  new 'find.' 
If  for  no  other  reason  the  photograph  of  her  in  the  magazine 
would  have  roused  my  envy.  She's  adorably  pretty — and — 
I  could  easily  guess  how  attractive  in  personality  she  must 
be  from  her  unexpected  way  of  putting  things  in  her  pages. 
As  for  her  ability — I've  told  you  honestly  how  I  feel  about 
that.  Well — anyhow,  she  made  me  think  more  than  ever 
about  the  book,  and  the  possibility  of  finishing  it.  Why 
should  I  let  this  new  star  eclipse  me?  I  assure  you — it's 
been  the  biggest  temptation  of  my  life — to  finish  that  book." 

But  at  this  he  interrupted  with  sudden  fire.  "Why 
should  you  call  it  a  temptation?  In  Heaven's  name — why 
that?  Why  shouldn't  you  finish  what  your  judgment  al- 
lowed you  to  begin?" 

"Because — why — you've  just  said  it.  In  Heaven's  name 
—I  can't!" 

They  regarded  each  other  steadily.     If  John  Kirkwood 


278  FOURSQUARE 

had  ever  felt  that  he  could  sway  and  control  Mary  Fletcher's 
mind  and  will,  he  knew  now  that  he  had  lost  that  power. 
He  was  wild  with  pain  at  the  thought,  and  yet — curiously 
enough — and  logically  enough,  after  all — he  had  never  been 
so  interested  in  her,  so  absorbed  in  the  wish  to  come  nearer 
to  her  and  pursue  this  fresh  study  of  her  at  close  range.  This 
was  a  new  Mary.  Desirable  as  she  had  always  been  to  him, 
both  as  a  writer  and  as  a  woman,  she  had  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye  become  infinitely  more  desirable.  As  for  the 
strange  new  beauty  of  her,  as  she  stood  there,  it  was  almost 
more  than  he  could  bear. 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  said,  after  a  minute.  But 
he  knew  he  did.  Her  meaning  was  in  her  face,  over  which 
had  come  an  indescribable  look,  not  so  much  of  renunciation 
as  of  exaltation. 

"My  mind  was  made  up  before  you  came,"  she  went  on 
slowly.  "At  least,  I  thought  it  was,  though  I  knew  it  might 
be  difficult  for  me  to  keep  it  made.  I  remembered  your 
wonderful  powers  of  persuasion — and — I  remembered  the 
fascination  of  work  with  you.  I  knew  when  you  saw  how 
completely  I  have  recovered  and  how  well  I  am,  you  would 
talk  to  me  about  the  book.  If  you  hadn't  brought  it  up  I 
should  have,  myself.  The  thing  had  to  be  settled  again 
on  a  new  basis  than  that  of  the  author's  breakdown.  And  I 
knew  it  might  be  hard  to  resist  you.  But" — and  here  she 
looked  down  at  the  thin  blue  leather-bound  book  which  she 
had  brought  back  with  her  to  the  orchard,  as  if  it  were  too 
precious  to  lay  aside  as  yet — "you  brought  me  my  defense 
against  you.  Why — John  Kirkwood — how  can  any  argu- 
ment of  yours  get  past — that!"  And  she  held  it  up  before 
him,  clasped  in  her  two  hands  and  pressed  against  he/ 
breast. 

He  was  silent,  biting  his  Up  with  disappointment  and 
chagrin.  The  thing  he  had  meant  to  soften  her  heart  toward 


WHITE  FIRE  279 

him  had  only  put  iron  into  her  will  against  him.     Was  ever 
such  a  weapon  turned  upon  him  who  had  forged  it  ? 

Mary  was  opening  it  to  a  page,  toward  the  end  of  the  last 
letter  in  the  book.  She  read  it  aloud,  and  in  her  voice 
was  something  Kirkwood  had  never  heard  there  before.  In 
spite  of  himself  the  hearing  moved  him  too. 

You're  full  of  fire,  lad — and  I'm  glad  of  that.  Fire  is  a  good 
thing — under  control.  But  I  want  yours  to  be  a  white  fire — not  a 
purple  and  yellow  flame,  dulling  and  smoking  things  up — but  clear 
white — and  bright — like  the  sunlight.  The  while  fire,  Sam — try  for 
that! 

She  looked  at  him.  In  her  eyes  were  no  tears,  yet  the 
effect  of  tears  was  there — and  joy  and  pride. 

"I  would  rather,"  she  said,  "have  had  my  father  the 
author  of  words  like  those,  and  the  influence  that  changed 
hundreds  of  boys'  lives,  than  have  had  him — oh,  achieve  the 
most  brilliant  literary  triumph  that — left  God  out.  '  White 
Fire!'  You've  given  me  my  new  creed,  John  Kirkwood — 
and  I'm  everlastingly  grateful  to  you  for  it.  Don't  you  see  ? 
Th£  fire  that's  in  your  book  isn't  white  fire — and  I  can't 
write  it.  I  can't  write  it.  Don't  you  see?  Oh,  I  want  you 
to  see!" 

If  it  had  been  his  personality  which  had  dominated  her 
in  the  past,  for  the  moment  at  least  the  tables  were  turned. 
Never  had  the  man  been  so  under  the  power  of  any  emotion 
as  Kirkwood  was  just  then.  Infinitely  desirable,  hopelessly 
unattainable — or  so  she  seemed  even  though  she  had  sud- 
denly and  quickly  crossed  the  space  between  them  and 
laid  one  beseeching  hand  upon  his  arm — at  that  moment 
Mary  could  do  with  him  what  she  would.  He  looked  into 
her  eyes  with  his  own  kindling  to  match  them,  and  the  best 
that  was  in  him  once  more  responded  to  her  challenge,  as  the 
best  in  man  ever  does  when  a  woman  he  respects  calls  for  it. 


280  FOURSQUARE 

He  looked  down  at  the  hand  upon  his  arm,  then  gently  lifted 
it  to  his  lips. 
"I  see,"  he  said. 

Two  days  after  he  had  gone  Mary's  manuscript  came  back 
to  her  through  the  registered  mails.  With  it  came  a  brief 
note. 

I  want  you  to  know  that  the  thing  I  said  to  you,  in  the  spring,  to 
quiet  your  fears  and  make  you  well,  I  say  again  now,  and  mean  it — 
in  a  different  way.  The  book  is  yours — you  may  destroy  it  your- 
self. I  can't — the  association  with  you  has  meant  too  much  to  me. 
I  can  only  hope,  in  spite  of  the  burned  bridge  between  us,  there  may 
be  a  way  across.  I  would  paddle  a  little  canoe  all  day  and  night 
against  wind  and  tide  to  get  to  you  again. 

It  was  Saturday  afternoon.  Mary  knew  the  old  church 
on  the  village  green  would  be  open.  She  laid  the  manuscript 
back  in  its  wrappers  and  went  down  the  hill  with  it  under  her 
arm.  In  the  silent  place,  sweet  with  roses  arranged  for  the 
morrow's  service,  she  went  to  stand  for  a  little  before  the 
silver  tablet  on  which  were  engraved  the  names  of  Arthur 
Rand  Fletcher  and  Eleanor  Graham  Fletcher,  his  wife. 
Presently  she  lifted  the  package  of  manuscript  in  both  hands 
before  the  tablet,  as  one  might  make  an  offering  before  a 
shrine. 

"Oh,  do  you  know? — Do  you  care?"  she  whispered. 

An  hour  afterward,  back  alone  in  the  orchard,  the  sheets 
burned  to  a  blackened  pile  of  ashes,  Mary  stood  looking  down 
at  them  with  wet  eyes.  But  she  was  not  unhappy;  indeed, 
her  heart  was  strangely  light.  She  knew,  somehow — though 
she  could  have  given  no  proof  of  it  beyond  her  own  intense 
conviction — that  they  knew  and  cared. 


CHAPTER  XVII 
Our  OF  THE  ASHES 


Y  DEAR  PROFESSOR  FENN: 

It  gives  me  great  pleasure  to  state  that 
at  a  meeting  of  our  College  Board,  called 
for  the  purpose  of  filling  the  chair  of  Psy- 
chology made  vacant  by  the  death  of 
Prof.  Harley  Abbott,  the  presentation  of 
your  name  met  with  unanimous  ap~ 
proval.  We  realize  that  at  this  late 
hour  you  may  have  been  reengaged  for 
the  coming  year.  But  in  the  circum- 
stances, and  in  view  of  the  opening  of 
this  field  of  perhaps  larger  usefulness, 
we  are  hoping  that  your  college  may 
generously  release  you.  Permit  me  to 
say  that  I  am  personally  most  desirous 
of  seeing  you  among  my  colleagues,  and 
trust  that  you  will  find  it  possible  to 
give  me  an  early  assurance  of  your  ac- 
ceptance. 

Faithfully  yours, 

JAMES  SAYRE  WINTHROP. 

President. 

It  wasn't  the  first— nor  the  tenth — 
time  that  Mark  had  read  the  letter. 
It  lay  before  him  now,  open  upon 
his  desk,  at  the  hour  of  midnight. 
There  was  no  delaying  longer,  he 
must  decide  the  question.  Late  as 
it  was,  and  weary  as  he  felt — it  was 
the  end  of  the  last  day  of  the  College 


a82  FOURSQUARE 

Commencement,  and  he  had  been  through  a  long  round  of 
the  exercises  pertaining  to  the  season,  in  the  hottest  June 
weather  ever  known — he  knew  that  it  was  due  to  the  senders 
of  the  invitation  to  accept  or  decline  at  once. 

Harriet  had  looked  wistful,  had  even  cried  a  little,  against 
her  own  will,  but  she  had  said — "Go."  Harriet  would  say 
it — she  was  that  sort.  It  meant  everything  to  her  to  keep 
him,  yet  her  honest  opinion  was  that  he  couldn't  afford  to  let 
such  an  opportunity  slip.  Why,  it  meant  an  advancement 
from  a  small  and  obscure  place  in  a  narrow  world  to  a  recog- 
nizable position  in  a  big  one.  The  University  whose  College 
of  Liberal  Arts  had  called  Mark  Fenn  was  one  known  every- 
where, though  it  might  not  be  placed  quite  at  the  top  of  the 
list  in  point  of  age  and  renown.  It  was  unthinkable  that 
Harriet  should  put  a  straw  of  personal  preference  in  his  way — 
and  she  hadn't.  Indeed,  she  was  proud  and  pleased  about  it, 
and  had  pointed  out  that  he  might  easily  procure  for  her  a 
teaching  position  in  one  of  the  city  schools,  so  that  she  could 
still  live  with  him  and  keep  house  for  him.  If  the  very 
thought  of  leaving  Newcomb  and  the  old  home  had  made  her 
sick  at  heart,  she  bravely  suppressed  it.  On  the  other  hand, 
something  had  stirred  within  her  at  thought  of  that  change. 
She  was  still  young  enough  to  long  for  new  scenes,  new  ex- 
periences. Anyhow,  she  wouldn't  stand  in  Mark's  way,  and 
what  was  to  come  would  come — let  it  come! 

Mark  had  also  laid  his  letter  of  invitation  before  Mary 
Fletcher.  He  had  had  no  doubt  at  all  as  to  what  she  would 
say — and  she  had  said  it.  She  had  read  it  through  and  then 
had  looked  up  and  cried  out:  "Oh,  how  splendid!  Of 
course  you'll  take  it.  You  couldn't  refuse.  YouVe  been  in 
this  little  place,  buried,  long  enough.  Now  you'll  get  out 
and  do  something!" 

"What  can  I  do — beyond  teach  bigger  classes  the  same 
things  I've  been  teaching  the  small  ones?  Bigger  classes  of 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES  283 

the  same  kind  of  young  men — and  perhaps  not  teach  them  as 
well  because  I  can't  come  into  personal  contact  with  so  many. 
It's  the  personal  contact  that  counts,  you  know.  When  I 
can't  remember  all  the  names  on  my  class  lists,  or  recognize 
half  my  students  when  I  meet  them  on  the  streets,  can  I  do 
as  much  for  them?" 

"Of  course  you  can!  If  you  lost  in  one  way  you'd  gain  in 
another.  There's  inspiration  in  numbers — you'd  find  it  so. 
What  speaker  prepares  himself  as  carefully  to  talk  to  ten  as 
to  a  hundred?  Besides — you'd  be  living  near  a  great  city; 
you'd  have  a  thousand  stimuli  to  your  mind  where  you  have 
one  here.  You'd  have  that  much  more  to  bring  to  your 
classes.  Why,  I  shouldn't  think  you  could  hesitate  an  hour, 
Mark  Fenn." 

"Yet  I  have  hesitated.  It's  my  father's  college — it  was 
a  great  thing  to  him  to  have  me  teach  in  it." 

"Of  course.  But  would  he  keep  you  here,  with  such  a 
chance  for  promotion?  Never!  He  wasn't  that  sort  of 
father." 

A  smile  touched  Mark's  sober  lips.  "No,  he  wasn't  that 
sort  of  father.  But  he  used  to  say  that  the  best  was  none  too 
good  for  his  students,  and  he  always  secured  the  best  he  cou!4 
get  for  the.  salaries  the  college  could  pay.  It  seems  like 
deserting  him — to  go." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  quick,  searching  glance.  "  But — • 
you  want  to  go?" 

He  faced  her.  "Yes,  in  one  way  I  want  very  much  to  go. 
I'm  human,  and  we  all  like  to  go  forward.  It's  impossible 
not  to  think  of  the  things  you've  just  mentioned — the  inter- 
est of  facing  fifty  men  to  every  five  I've  had  here;  the  attrac- 
tion of  the  big  city — the  libraries,  lectures,  music,  plays — 
everything.  The  truth  of  it  is — I'm  wild  to  go — and  I  want 
to  stay.  If  you  can  understand  that " 

"I  can.     But — I  beg  you  to  go.     I  believe  it's  every  man's 


284  FOURSQUARE 

duty  to  make  just  as  much  of  himself  as  he  can.  Your  father 
would  say  that,  I  know.  And  I,  as  your  friend,  say  it. 
There's  no  other  answer,  Mark." 

He  had  come,  more  and  more,  to  feel  this.  Indeed,  when 
he  had  read  the  letter  for  this  last  time,  he  had  suddenly 
pulled  a  sheet  of  paper  toward  him  and  taken  out  his  pen. 
He  might  as  well  get  it  over.  He  knew  his  college  would  re- 
lease him,  though  most  regretfully.  President  Wing  had 
sailed  for  England  two  days  ago,  but  he  would  be  the  first  to 
bid  Mark  accept  this  invitation;  indeed,  it  was  more  than  pos- 
sible he  had  already  been  referred  to.  He  could  send  a  ten- 
tative acceptance  and  then  write  to  Dr.  Wing. 

Mark  pushed  the  paper  away  again.  One  more  short  walk, 
up  and  down  the  now  quiet  street,  and  he  would  be  ready. 
Best  come  to  his  decision  and  his  letter  fresh  from  the  open 
air,  not  with  nerves  and  brain  tired  from  sitting  over  a  desk. 
He  filled  his  pipe,  took  up  his  hat,  and  let  himself  quietly  out 
upon  the  porch. 

What  was  that  faintly  ruddy  colour  in  the  night  sky,  above 
the  top  of  the  hill  where  the  college  buildings  stood  ?  Could 
the  students  be  having  a  farewell  bonfire?  Not  likely.  All 
but  the  graduating  class  had  gone,  and  even  part  of  those, 
with  the  visitors,  had  taken  the  evening  train.  Those  left, 
tired  with  the  many  days  of  exercises  and  festivities,  had 
gone  early  to  bed,  expecting  to  catch  the  morning  train. 
After  a  full  week  of  crowded  streets  and  gala  atmosphere,  the 
quiet  to-night  was  restful. 

Mark's  eyes  studied  the  sky  in  the  north,  as  he  strode 
rapidly  that  way.  It  wasn't  much  of  a  colour,  hardly  enough 
to  attract  attention  at  first;  then  suddenly  it  deepened, 
spread,  and  became  something  actual,  something  to  be 
reckoned  with.  Mark  quickened  his  pace  up  the  hill;  lost 
the  sky  behind  a  line  of  tall  oaks  bordering  the  campus.  Out 
of  sight  of  it  his  apprehension  grew,  until  as  he  came  out  into 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES  285 

a  clear  space  he  saw  at  last  that  his  fears  were  well  grounded 
— there  was  a  fire,  either  in  the  main  building  of  the  small 
group  which  formed  the  college,  or  in  the  gymnasium 
directly  behind  it.  He  rushed  across  the  campus,  shouting 
loudly. 

The  dormitories,  one  on  either  side,  were  nearly  empty  of 
men;  here  and  there  a  window  showed  a  white  figure,  respond- 
ing to  the  cry  of  alarm.  Two  minutes  later  people  were 
appearing  from  all  quarters;  a  few  students  were  running  for 
the  college  hand  fire  apparatus.  Mark  had  broken  a  window 
and  climbed  into  the  office,  was  telephoning  the  village  fire 
department.  In  five  minutes  bells  were  clanging  as  the  fire 
truck  plunged  heavily  up  the  hill.  The  main  building  was  on 
fire  at  the  back  and  the  flames  were  spreading  straight  up 
from  the  lower  floor  to  the  roof.  There  had  been  nobody 
behind  to  see  what  was  happening;  the  fire  had  not  shown  in 
front  nor  in  the  sky  until  the  whole  lower  rear  floor  had  been 
consumed. 

Mary  Fletcher  and  Rose  O'Grady  had  wakened  at  almost 
the  same  moment — when  the  village  fire  truck  came  clanging 
up  the  hill  past  the  house.  They  had  met  in  the  hall,  running 
to  the  front  of  the  house,  and  now  hung  out  of  two  windows, 
side  by  side  up  under  the  pillars  of  the  porch. 

"It  may  be  the  college — it  must  be!"  Mary  decided. 
"There's  nothing  else  up  there  that  could  make  such  a  sky. 
I'm  going!" 

"You're  that.  I'm  with  you.  There  might  be  something 
we  could  do." 

"We  must  call  the  Fenns.  They  mightn't  have  heard." 
Mary  was  hurrying  into  her  clothes.  She  pinned  up  her  long 
hanging  braids  with  two  hasty  thrusts. 

"The  Professor'll  be  there  before  the  firemen,"  Rose  called 
back.  "Him  that  thinks  his  eyes  of  the  ugly  old  buildings. 
We'll  waste  no  time  letting  him  know." 


286  FOURSQUARE 

As  they  ran  past  the  Fenn  gate  Harriet  came  flying  down 
the  path.  "Have  you  seen  Mark?"  she  cried.  "I  can't  find 
him." 

"Come  along.  You'll  find  him  in  the  thick  of  it."  Rose 
caught  her  hand.  Together  the  three  rushed  on  up  the  hill, 
half  the  population  of  the  village  streaming  ahead  and  behind 
them. 

"Oh — oh!"  Harriet  stood  still,  panting  for  breath,  half 
way  across  the  campus.  "It's  going — the  whole  main  build- 
ing— the  one  Father  rebuilt.  It  burned  half  down  once  before 
— he  went  out  and  got  the  money  for  the  new  one.  Oh,  I 
wish  I  knew  where  Mark  is!" 

"He's  in  that  crowd  of  men,  of  course,"  Mary  said,  with 
a  conviction  of  tone  she  didn't  feel.  "There's  nothing  they 
can  do."  Her  own  heart  was  beating  hard.  There  was 
something  awesome,  as  there  always  is,  about  the  sight  of  a 
big  building  in  the  hopeless  grip  of  devastating  flames.  "Oh, 
but  it's  too  bad!" 

"The  bit  of  stream  they've  got — it  wouldn't  be  putting 
out  a  bonfire."  Rose  started  on  again.  "There's  men  up 
there,  too,  with  the  hose." 

The  three  pressed  closer.  "I  wish  I  knew  where  Mark  is!" 
Harriet  kept  saying,  till  Rose  turned  on  her  with  her  own 
quick  thrust  to  the  reasonableness  of  things. 

"You'll  not  be  knowing,  Miss  Harriet,  till  the  thing's  over. 
You'd  not  want  him  standing  around  keeping  himself  in  a 
safe  place  on  the  edge  of  trouble.  The  Professor's  no  coward 
— he'll  be  doing  what  he  can." 

y* I'm  afraid  he  may  try  to  get  out  the  records — or  some- 
thing," worried  Harriet.  "Father's  records — they  were  in 
the  office.  They'd  be  the  first  thing  he'd  think  of.  The 
office  was  right  there  in  the  middle,  where  it's  the  worst." 

"Would  any  men  have  been  asleep  in  that  building?'* 
Mary  was  trying  hard  to  keep  cool.  It  wasn't  like  Harriet 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES  287 

to  be  so  upset  without  definite  cause,  yet  it  wasn't  strange, 
either.  The  mere  possibility  that  Mark  might  be  somewhere 
within  reach  of  those  springing,  cruel  flames  was  enough  to 
alarm  any  sister.  Even  in  the  case  of  a  neighbour  and  friend 
one  may  be  exceedingly  anxious. 

"Nobody  but  the  janitor  and  his  family.  The  dormitories 
are  at  the  sides — over  there — and  there.  But  the  students 
have  mostly  gone,  Mark  said  to-night.  These  must  be  towns- 
people. There's  a  lot  of  young  men — they  aren't  doing  a 
thing." 

"What  could  they  do — except  stand  and  gaze?  They're 
doing  that — bless  their  little  hearts!"  Rose  glanced  at  them 
contemptuously.  "It's  enjoying  themselves  they  are — they 
aren't  crazy  about  the  college — the  town  boys.  Take  your 
hands  out  of  your  pockets,  you  gossoon!" 

"Where'll  I  put  'em?"  questioned  the  youth,  passing  Rose 
and  catching  her  last  words.  He  whirled  on  his  heel  and 
looked  laughing  into  her  face,  ruddy  in  the  firelight.  Every 
riotous  Irish  red  curl  on  her  head  was  standing  out;  she  had 
merely  caught  them  up  into  a  mop  at  the  back;  she  looked 
every  inch  a  saucy  girl  of  his  own  age. 

"Is  the  janitor  out — and  his  family?"  she  came  back  at 
him. 

"Why,  of  course — suppose  so." 

"Why  not  know  so?  It  takes  hands  to  get  folks  out — and 
things.  There  might  be  a  statue  of  a  lazy  man  you  could  be 
carrying  out,  sonny.  Or  a  book  on  'What  To  Do  When 
Things  Happen. '" 

Before  he  could  retor*.  she  had  turned  her  back  on  him. 
''I've  stood  here  as  long  as  I  can,"  she  announced.  "I'm 
off  to  see  what's  happening — close  up.  You'd  best  stay 
here — you  weren't  in  the  army  like  me.  Maybe  somebody'll 
be  needing  a  nurse."  And  without  further  words  she  ran 
around  the  offending  group  of  village  young  men  with  their 


288  FOURSQUARE 

hands  also  in  their  pockets,  and  was  lost  to  view  in  the  crowd 
beyond. 

"Oh,  let's  go  too ! "  urged  Mary.    But  Harriet  held  her  back. 

"We'll  only  be  in  the  way.  Rose  might  really  help.  And 
maybe  she'll  find  Mark.—  Oh— look  at  that  /" 

It  was  the  first  crumbling  of  an  upper  turret  which  an 
instant  later  crashed  in  with  a  great  flare  of  leaping  flame, 
followed  by  a  smother  of  smoke  which  rolled  low  across  the 
campus. 

"They're  doing  as  well's  they  can,"  said  a  man  close  beside 
Mary,  "but  the  water  supply  ain't  good  enough  up  here. 
Pressure's  low  in  dry  times.  They  can't  handle  that  fire 
with  what  they've  got.  Building's  bound  to  go — all  of  it." 

"She  burned  once  before — fifteen  years  or  so  ago,"  an- 
other man  commented.  "Same  trouble — they  couldn't  get  a 
stream  on  her.  Hill's  no  place  for  an  institution,  /  say,  with- 
out an  expensive  water-pumping  system — which  they  ain't 
got.  Guess  they'd  better  locate  elsewhere  if  they  want  to 
keep  goinY' 

On  their  other  side  Mary  and  Rose  heard  other  critics. 
These  were  village  women. 

"President  Wing  sailed  day  before  yesterday,  didn't  he? 
Guess  he'll  wish  he  hadn't  when  he  gets  the  news." 

"What'd  he  want  to  go  ofFfor  before  Commencement  was 
over?" 

"Something  about  taking  a  degree  at  Oxford,  I  heard. 
Better'd  have  let  the  degree  go  and  looked  after  his  college. 
He  always  did  travel  around  a  lot,  /  thought." 

"Mrs.  Wing  go  with  him?" 

"Sure,  she  did.     Always  goes  when  he  does,  summers." 

"Wonder  when  they'll  get  the  news." 

"Wireless'll  catch  'em,"  the  woman  said,  importantly. 
"  But  much  good  that'll  do — they  can't  get  back  till  they've 
been  across." 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES  289 

"Come!"  Mary  breathed.  "We  must  do  something  be- 
sides stand  here.  Let's  try  to  get  around  on  the  back  side  of 
the  building — perhaps  we  can  find  something  to  do." 

But  the  crowd  was  denser  at  the  back  of  the  burning  build- 
ing where  the  fire  engine  stood.  They  couldn't  approach 
nearer  than  a  small  hillock  at  the  side  of  the  gymnasium,  but 
from  this  point  certain  active  forms  other  than  those  of  fire- 
men became  visible.  At  the  end  of  the  building  farthest  from 
the  centre  of  destruction,  which  the  flames  hadn't  yet  reached, 
but  toward  which,  in  spite  of  all  efforts,  they  were  rapidly 
extending,  men  were  rushing  out  from  the  windows  piles  of 
books,  which  others  were  carrying  into  the  gymnasium  itself. 

"They're  trying  to  save  the  library,"  Harriet  cried,  ex- 
citedly. "Oh,  what  a  pity! — Mark  will  be  wild  about  losing 
all  those  books.  They  can  never  get  them  all  out  in  time. " 

"Why  didn't  they  have  a  separate  library  building?" 

"Mercy! — this  is  a  small  college,  Mary — they  could  never 
afford  it.  But  it's  a  splendid  collection.  Oh — look! — it's 
breaking  out  'way  down  at  that  end!" 

"There's  Professor  Chilton."  Mary  leaned  forward  as  a 
tall  figure  with  smoke-begrimed  face  and  eyes  red-rimmed 
with  smoke  staggered  toward  the  gymnasium  heavily  loaded. 
"And  there's  Mr.  Somers — and  Mr.  Hamilton." 

"Oh,  the  whole  faculty  are  here,  of  course.  I  wish  I  could 
see  Mark!  I'm  going  to  push  through  there  and  ask  some- 
body if  they've  seen  him." 

But  she  didn't  get  far.  At  the  moment  there  was  a  tre- 
mendous crash,  as  the  entire  middle  portion  of  the  roof  fell 
into  the  blazing  furnace  of  the  interior,  and  there  was  a  falling 
back  of  the  crowd  which  carried  Harriet  and  Mary  with  it  as 
if  they  had  been  straws. 

"Get  back,  everybody!"  shouted  a  voice  of  authority. 
"  The  walls  may  go  down  any  minute.  Get  back — farther — • 
and  keep  back — 'way  back — everybody!" 


29o  FOURSQUARE 

"That's  Mark!"  Sister  and  friend  spoke  the  relieved  words 
together. 

"He  sounds  unhurt,"  whispered  Mary,  smiling  into  Har- 
riet's tense  face. 

"  I  see  him."  Harriet  strained  her  eyes  to  peer  through  the 
uncanny,  smoky-orange  light.  "I've  been  watching  those 
men  on  the  roof — I  thought  he  might  be  there.  I  wish  they'd 
come  down." 

"Firemen  know  when  to  come.  There — they're  coming 
now — down  that  ladder.  It's  no  use — they  can't  save  a  bit 
of  it." 

They  couldn't.  It  had  been  apparent  from  the  first,  yet 
they  had  done  all  they  could.  In  spite  of  the  usual  amount  of 
traditional  enmity  between  "town  and  gown,"  the  village 
really  was  enormously  proud  of  its  college,  and  the  burning 
of  the  central  and  most  important  building  would  be  con- 
sidered a  calamity  affecting  the  whole  community.  The 
village  firemen  had  worked  savagely  and  with  every  expedient 
to  overcome  the  obstacle  of  the  low  water  pressure.  Chemi- 
cals had  been  used  without  stint.  Mark  himself  had  been 
first  in  the  building  to  tear  down  the  various  containers  from 
the  walls  and  hurl  them  into  the  centre  of  the  blaze.  A  small 
engine,  privately  owned  and  operated  byone  of  the  rich  young 
men  of  the  town,  had  also  done  its  best.  Had  the  fire  been 
discovered  a  few  minutes  earlier,  such  resources  might  have 
been  sufficient. 

"I  know  what  we  can  do,"  Mary  said  suddenly.  "Let's 
get  word  to  Mark  to  bring  the  firemen  and  the  faculty — 
everybody  that's  done  any  work — and  we'll  have  coffee  for 
them,  on  my  porch.  It'll  be  over  in  an  hour  more — and 
there's  no  wind,  the  other  buildings  will  be  safe.  They've 
worked  like  fiends — they'll  need  it." 

"Splendid!"  The  idea  of  action  was  a  relief;  Harriet 
could  rejoice  at  the  thought,  unhappy  as  she  was  over  thaf 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES  291 

which  was  to  her  and  Mark  the  destruction  of  what  was  all 
but  personal  property. 

The  two  made  their  way  around  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd 
and  hurried  back  to  the  house.  Two  hours  later  the  Graham 
porch  was  the  centre  of  fresh  activities.  Grimy  hands  seized 
Mary's  steaming  cups,  and  dipped  into  great  pans  of  dough" 
nuts,  made  in  haste  by  Eliza.  In  the  two  hours  leeway  she 
had  turned  out  an  incredible  number,  stimulated  by  thought 
of  the  hungry  men  who  wrould  enjoy  them. 

"There's  nothing  else  that  goes  so  good  with  coffee,  Misf 
Mary,"  she  had  said,  when  Mary  proposed  sandwiches.  "1 
made  ninety-five  doughnuts  once  in  half  an  hour,  when  my 
father's  barn  burned.  I  guess  nobody  ever  beat  that,  if  I  do 
say  it.  It  most  broke  my  heart,  though,  because  I  couldn't 
make  a  hundred.  My  little  brother  was  watching  the  clock 
on  me,  and  that  got  me  nervous.  I  won't  get  nervous  to- 
night because  I  ain't  so  much  connected  with  the  college,  as 
you  might  say — though  I  do  think  a  lot  of  Miss  Harriet  and 
Mr.  Mark."  And  by  the  way  she  plunged  into  her  self- 
appointed  task,  even  while  her  tongue  ran  excitedly,  Mary 
knew  Eliza's  hands  would  work  with  skill  and  rapidity. 

"This  is  great  stuff,  Miss  Fletcher,"  declared  Edgar 
Hamilton,  the  young  instructor  in  chemistry  who  had  by  no 
means  failed  to  follow  up  his  acquaintance  with  Mary,  begun 
at  Harriet's  dinner,  last  September.  He  began  on  his  third 
doughnut  as  he  spoke,  and  Mary  handed  the  big  pan  on  to  a 
stalwart  fireman  who  looked  as  if  he  had  worked  even  harder 
than  Mr.  Hamilton.  "It's  almost  worth  having  the  old 
building  burn  for.  Pretty  antiquated,  I  thought  it.  I  hope 
they'll  get  a  new  one — though  I  hardly  think  I'll  stay  to  see. 
My  laboratory  was  wiped  out  like  a  drawing  on  a  slate." 

"Guess  this'll  put  the  kibosh  on  the  college  for  next  year, 
won't  it?"  speculated  the  fireman  at  his  elbow.  "There 
don't  look  like  rouch  left,  with  the  main  building  gone,  so." 


292  FOURSQUARE 

"Oh,  I  suppose  things  can  go  on,  somehow,  housing  classes 
about  the  town,  as  is  usually  done  in  such  cases,"  Hamilton 
explained,  in  his  condescending  manner  which  lost  a  little 
from  conjunction  with  his  very  dirty  face.  To  do  him 
justice  he  had  done  his  best  to  save  his  most  expensive 
chemicals,  and  had  succeeded  sufficiently  to  make  him  feel 
that  he  had  played  his  part  with  honour.  "But  it's  a  blow 
to  the  institution  it'll  be  hard  to  recover  from.  It  wouldn't 
be  possible  to  have  a  new  building  under  another  year — and  I 
don't  know  where  the  funds  for  it  would  come  from,  if  it 
were,"  he  continued  to  Mary.  "Somebody'll  have  to  do 
some  pretty  stiff  work  before  they  have  enough,  these  days  of 
costly  materials  and  labour." 

"You  speak  as  if  you  were  already  out  of  it,"  Mary  com- 
mented, with  a  touch  of  criticism  in  her  voice  which  brought 
Hamilton  to  modify  in  haste  his  attitude  of  aloofness. 

"Oh,  I'm  interested,  of  course.  But  I've  only  been  here 
a  year,  and  couldn't  be  expected  to  take  it  to  heart  like  some 
of  the  old  timers — Fenn,  for  instance.  One  would  have  said 
he  had  a  wife  and  large  family  of  children  in  the  building, 
by  the  way  he  tore  around.  Now,  in  a  way,  I  consider  a 
fire  like  that  a  blessing.  When  they  do  get  a  new  building 
it'll  be  up-to-date — I  hope — which  the  old  one  certainly 
wasn't." 

"An  old  building  has  its  charm,  however,  Mr.  Hamilton, 
hasn't  it?"  inquired  mildly  the  pleasant  voice  of  Professor 
Chilton.  The  tall  figure  of  the  Englishman  loomed  up  at 
Mary's  other  side,  as  she  was  about  to  turn  away,  and  she 
paused  to  listen.  "Up-to-dateness"  in  scholastic  housing 
was  hardly  likely  to  be  an  Oxford  man's  first  requirement. 
"One  must  consider  the  loss  of  ivy-covered  walls  a  very  real 
one.  The  traditions  which  come  down  from  father  to  son 
must  suffer  more  or  less  destruction  at  such  a  time." 

He  had  been  among  the  hardest  of  the  workers,  and  his 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES  293 

appearance  bore  testimony  to  that  fact.  He  was  in  his 
begrimed  shirt-sleeves,  one  of  which  was  badly  torn;  his  hair, 
which  grew  in  such  a  way  as  to  leave  two  scholarly  peaks  at 
either  side  of  his  forehead,  was  dishevelled;  his  eyes  were 
smoke-reddened  and  suffused. 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  Hamilton  admitted,  with  the  respectful 
inflection  Chilton  invariably  called  out,  "the  old  building  had 
a  certain  dignity,  in  spite  of  its  general  look  of  decay.  In  a 
way,  Fm  sorry  it's  gone.  But  I'm  sorrier  about  the  equip- 
ment, which  was  really  pretty  good." 

"It  was  admirable.  In  your  own  department,  Mr, 
Hamilton,  I  have  understood  that  there  was  little  you  lacked 
— and  you  did  well  to  try  to  save  as  much  as  possible.  As  for 
the  library — I  was  amazed,  when  I  first  came,  at  its  extent 
and  quality;  no  college  need  be  ashamed  of  such  a  collection. 
I  am  happy  that  so  many  volumes  were  rescued.  Mr.  Fenn 
deserves  great  praise  for  the  system  of  salvage  he  put  into 
execution.  I  fear  he  may  have  suffered  some  injury,  how- 
ever. Have  you  seen  him  since  he  came  down?" 

"I  haven't,  for  a  fact.  The  last  I  saw  of  him,  though,  he 
was  all  right.  Burned  his  hands  a  little,  but  nothing  more. 
Most  of  us  did  something  of  the  kind."  Hamilton  exhibited 
a  cut  finger  bound  with  a  strip  of  handkerchief.  "Had  to 
smash  a  window  in  the  lab,"  he  explained. 

Mary  went  on  with  her  serving,  but  her  eyes  searched  the 
crowd  for  Mark.  She  hadn't  seen  Rose  since  she  left  her 
at  the  fire,  and  had  herself  been  too  busy  to  miss  her.  Harriet 
had  reported  Mark  safe  and  sound,  having  had  a  message 
from  him  that  he  would  stay  a  while  longer  on  the  ground  to 
make  sure  all  was  safe.  But  Mary  was  beginning  to  wish 
very  much  that  he  would  appear,  when  she  caught  sight  of 
him,  coming  with  Rose  across  the  lawn  from  his  own  home. 
His  right  arm  was  in  a  sling,  and  his  face  was  a  scorched  and 
cindery  red,  but  he  came  with  a  vigorous  stride,  with  which 


294  FOURSQUARE 

Rose  had  some  difficulty  to  keep  up.     Mary  went  to  meet 
the  pair. 

"Broken?" 

"Not  a  bit.  Merely  singed — and  Miss  O'Grady  would 
put  her  mark  on  it." 

"It's  burned  to  the  deep  tissue,"  said  Rose,  "and  him 
rarin'  about  the  place  and  gettin*  dirt  in  it.  It's  in  bed  he 
should  be,  this  minute,  but  he's  got  something  on  his  mind 
again,  and  I  can  do  nothing  with  him." 

She  looked  after  him,  for  he  hadn't  lingered  to  be  condoled 
with.  "There  goes  a  regular  fellow,"  said  she.  "Not  in  the 
army  have  I  seen  such  a  dare-devil — and  me  thinking  him  all 
books  and  no  brawn.  It  was  books  he  was  lifting  by  the  ton, 
after  he  was  burned,  but  it  wasn't  for  books  he  risked  his  life. 
It  was  for  a  couple  of  old  tin  boxes  and  a  bundle  of  papers  he 
got  out  of  the  middle  of  the  building  after  it  was  all  afire. 
They  may  have  been  important,  but  they  weren't  worth  his 
life.  Still,  I'm  glad  he  got  them,"  she  concluded,  with  a 
twinkle  in  her  Irish  eyes,  "for  I  judge  he  couldn't  have  lived 
without  them  anyways.  He  put  them  to  bed  in  his  desk 
before  he'd  have  his  arm  dressed,  and  me  waiting  with  the 
bandages. — What  have  you  got  over  here?  Coffee?  Faith, 
will  you  hand  me  a  quart  of  that  same?  That  was  right 
clever  of  you  to  think  of  it — the  men  need  it." 

She  needed  it  herself,  Mary  saw.  Rose  drank  thirstily  and 
smiled  at  Eliza,  bringing  a  plateful  of  doughnuts. 

"Your  wings,  Eliza,"  she  murmured,  "look  to  me  bigger 
and  whiter  than  ever,  and  that's  saying  something." 

"These  are  the  last,  Miss  Rose.  I've  fried  a  hundred  and 
sixty-three,  and  the  flour  and  lard's  given  out — and  I  guess 
the  men  are  full.  These  are  for  you  and  Mr.  Fenn.  I  saw 
you  coming — and  him  with  his  arm  hurt.  Where  is  he?" 

"Bless  my  heart,  the  man's  going  to  make  a  speech!  Let 
me  get  where  I  can  see  him."  And  Rose,  her  hands  full, 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES  295 

hastily  moved  nearer  the  spot  where  Mark  stood,  calling  to  a 
departing  group  of  men  at  the  edge  of  the  lawn: 

"Come  back,  please.  I  want  to  say  something  to  every" 
body!" 

They  gathered  around,  students,  men  of  the  faculty,  towns- 
men, a  motley  little  crowd,  among  whom,  in  the  lights  which 
came  from  the  house  windows,  it  would  have  been  difficult  for 
a  discerning  eye  to  distinguish  the  professor  of  mathematics 
from  one  of  the  village  plumbers,  or  a  member  of  the  graduat- 
ing class  with  his  diploma  in  his  packed  trunk  from  the  young 
postman  who  stood  beside  him.  All  looked  alike  of  the 
common  people,  who  had  been  to  a  fire  and  seen  as  much 
service  there  as  their  varying  personal  qualities  had  inspired 
them  to  offer. 

All  now  regarded  with  interest  the  figure  of  Mark  Fenn, 
in  his  soiled  and  burned  shirt-sleeves,  with  his  arm  in  a  sling, 
as  he  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  porch  and  began  a  short  speech. 
If  his  words  remained  indelibly  impressed  upon  the  memories 
of  certain  of  those  who  listened,  it  was  because  they  came 
with  a  tensity  and  force  which  were  bound  to  command 
attention.  It  was  undoubtedly  the  hour  and  the  place  and 
the  man  together,  and  when  that  conjunction  occurs  there 
is  no  need  of  record  by  pen  and  paper.  Years  afterward, 
Mary  Fletcher  thought  she  could  have  repeated  that  speech, 
word  for  word. 

"Boys,  our  biggest  building's  gone.  It's  a  terrific  loss;  we 
haven't  an  hour  to  mourn  about  it.  The  President's  away 
— he  can't  get  back  under  a  month,  and  we  can't  wait  for 
him  to  come  and  take  charge.  I've  been  all  over  the  ruins, 
and  I  believe  there's  a  lot  of  material  left.  The  first  thing 
to  be  done  is  to  clear  away  the  debris,  and  it'll  take  time  to 
get  workmen  here.  Labour's  high.  We  here  can  do  it  our- 
selves. We  must  have  a  new  building  well  under  way  by 
fall;  we  must  have  the  news  of  it  go  out  at  once,  so  not  a  boy 


296  FOURSQUARE 

/ 

will  change  his  mind  about  registering  here  for  next  term. 
You'll  say — you  can't  help  saying — where's  the  money 
coming  from?  That's  what  I  want  to  tell  you.  I'm  going 
out  to  get  it — starting  to-morrow  morning.  I  shall  spend  the 
summer  at  it.  If  I  can  tell  the  people  I  go  to  that  everybody's 
already  at  work  here,  hard  and  fast,  that  will  make  them 
realize  we  mean  to  do  our  part.  I'm  calling  for  volunteers — • 
and  there  are  two  men  from  the  engineering  department  I 
want  to  have  sign  up  first.  Under  their  direction" — and 
he  looked  down  into  two  eager  faces  below  him  at  his  left — 
"that  debris  can  be  cleaned  up  with  mighty  little  expense. 
How  about  it — Collins  and  Underwood?" 

"Here,  sir,"  responded  Collins,  and  Underwood  was  but  a 
breath  behind  him.  Both  were  beaming  approval. 

"I  know  what  that  means,"  Mark  asserted,  "for  I  know 
something  of  their  plans.  Now,  men  of  the  faculty,  nobody's 
authorized  me  to  do  this  thing,  but  I'm  going  to  do  it 
just  the  same.  I  want  your  help.  How  many  of  you  will 
stay  in  town  this  summer  and  put  things  through?" 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Somers,  the  mathematics 
head,  spoke. 

"Excuse  me,  Fenn,  but  I  can't  help  doubting  the  wisdom 
of  this.  With  President  Wing  away,  have  we  the  right  to 
take  things  into  our  own  hands?  The  times  are  difficult — 
raising  the  money  won't  be  easy.  Personally  I'm  ready  to 
do  my  part,  of  course.  But  the  cost  of  materials  is  very 
high,  and  it  seems  to  me  it  might  be  for  our  advantage  to 
defer  building  until  another  year,  when  prices  may  be  lower. 
Rushing  it  through  this  summer " 

Here  murmurs  right  and  left  interrupted  him,  and  for  a 
minute  or  two  discussion  became  general  and  excited.  Both 
sides  were  strenuously  upheld.  Mark  allowed  the  talk  to 
continue  long  enough  to  satisfy  the  need  for  expression,  then 
he  called  out  again,  asking  for  another  hearing.  And  now 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES  297 

he  spoke  in  a  different  tone.  He  had  taken  them  by  storm 
with  the  practical  side  of  the  matter,  because  he  had  felt  it 
necessary  to  startle  them  before  he  tried  to  persuade  them,  to 
get  their  attention.  The  hour  was  late — it  was  indeed  nearly 
morning,  and  though  the  coffee  had  somewhat  refreshed  them 
they  were  weary.  In  a  way  he  knew  it  was  no  time  to  enlist 
them  on  his  side,  and  yet — he  felt  it  his  only  chance.  When 
these  men  had  returned  to  their  homes  and  their  wives,  and 
had  begun  to  discuss  the  matter  over  breakfast  tables,  those 
summer  plans  most  of  them  had  made  would  appear  more 
alluring  than  ever.  Besides,  one  or  two  of  the  faculty  were 
expecting  to  leave  within  a  day  or  two,  not  to  mention  all 
these  of  the  graduating  class  who  had  not  already  gone.  He 
must  capture  their  wills  to-night,  or  fail. 

"Men  of  Newcomb,"  he  said — and  the  change  in  his  tone 
arrested  them  all,  for  he  was  no  longer  speaking  to  the  crowd 
in  general,  but  to  his  colleagues  in  the  faculty,  whose  support 
he  must  have — "in  a  biography  of  a  distinguished  educator, 
there  occurs  this  phrase,  which  has  burned  itself  into  my 
memory — '  The  power  of  a  great  and  challenging  expectation.9 
It  has  come  to  me  with  tremendous  force  to-night  that  **e 
have  in  our  hands  an  extraordinary  opportunity.  Newcomb 
is  a  small  college  and  is  known — where  it  is  known — as  such. 
If  we  can  do  the  big  thing  of  creating  a  Challenging  expec- 
tation '  in  the  minds  of  our  public  by  pushing  through  this 
rebuilding  in  one  summer  season,  we  shall  do  more  'o  bring 
new  boys  here  than  we  have  ever  done.  If  we  can  make  them 
feel  the  spirit  of  the  place — the  big,  indomitable  spirit  which 
you  and  I  know  really  exists  here — they  will  flo<  k  to  us — 
nothing  can  keep  them  away.  The  thing  can  he  done,  I 
know  it  can.  It  means  self-sacrifice.  I  put  it  up  to  you — • 
for  the  sake  of  Newcomb,  and  of  William  Wescott  Wing,  will 
you  stand  by  me  and  see  it  through?" 

He  had  barely  paused  when  the  Englishman  from  Oxford! 


298  FOURSQUARE 

whose  homeward  passage  on  a  ship  sailing  two  days  later  had 
long  been  booked,  the  newest  comer  of  them  all  except  Edgai 
Hamilton,  spoke  quietly  from  the  shadow  of  the  tall  white 
pillar  near  by. 

"If  you  will  permit  me,  I  will  accompany  you,  Mr.  Fenn, 
on  your  trip  to  raise  the  funds." 

After  that  there  was  but  one  thing  for  all  of  them  to  do 
— to  agree.  As  Mary  watched  the  faces  in  the  light  upon  the 
lawn,  she  was  almost  startled  by  their  transformed  expression. 
Mark's  simple  yet  magnetic  words  had  struck  the  spark  of 
loyalty.  These  American  college  men  couldn't  allow  them- 
selves to  be  outdone  by  one  from  across  the  water,  whose 
name  was  better  known  than  any  of  their  own.  As  they 
dispersed  they  were  talking  earnestly,  college  men  and  towns- 
men alike,  of  the  thing  that  was  to  be  done.  There  could 
be  no  doubt  that  Mark's  work  was  well  begun. 

As  the  lawn  cleared  Mary  came  up  to  Mark.  He  had 
rather  suddenly  backed  up  from  the  edge  of  the  porch  to  lean 
against  the  wall  of  the  house,  as  if  with  the  end  of  the  neces- 
sity for  endurance,  fatigue  and  pain  were  all  at  once  :'n  the 
ascendency.  But  his  smile  at  her  was  very  bright. 

"You  look  as  if  you  were  worn  out — and  yet  quite  happy 
Can  you  possibly  be  both  ?"  she  asked. 

"Both— easily." 

"  But  you  haven't  given  up  the  new  offer?  You'll  do  whar 
you  can  this  summer,  and  then  go  in  the  fall?" 

He  looked  at  her  steadily.  "No — I've  decided  to  stand 
by  the  old  college — and  my  father/'  he  said. 

For  a  moment  she  studied  him.  "Is  standing  by  your 
motto?" 

"I  didn't  know  it,  if  it  is." 

"And  haven't  you  really  any  ambition  to  get  away  into  a 
bigger  life  ? " 

"  I  can  think  of  no  bigger  life  than  Newcomb  now  offers. 


OUT  OF  THE  ASHES  299 

If  I  can  help  seize  this  chance  to  bring  new  life  to  this  college 
— as  I'm  sure  can  be  done — won't  that  be  a  more  'challenging 
expectation '  for  me,  than  merely  bettering  my  salary  and  the 
size  of  my  classes?  Anyhow,  it's  settled.  I'm  sorry  if 
you're  disappointed." 

A  little  smile  touched  her  face  and  he  saw  it  suddenly 
glowing  with  a  look  he  hadn't  expected. 

"I  want  you  to  know,"  she  said,  "that  never  in  my  life 
have  I  been  so  proud  of  a  friend.  And  everything  I  can  find 
to  do  to  help  you  I'm  going  to  do.  It  may  be  more  than  you 
would  think." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 
PARTNERSHIP 


OY  with  proof,  Miss  Mary.  Says  it's 
got  to  go  right  back,  if  you  want  the 
letters  ready  to  go  out  to-night." 

"Yes,  Eliza — thank  you.  Tell  him 
I'll  have  it  ready  in  ten  minutes." 

Mary  received  the  two  slim  galleys, 
picked  up  a  pencil  and  with  a  trained 
eye  ran  rapidly  through  them.  She  sat 
at  a  fine  old  desk  in  a  small  room  be^ 
yond  the  drawing-room  which  had  tak- 
en on  the  business-like  look  of  an  office. 
Herself  trim  and  fresh  in  blue  linen, 
she  had  very  much  the  air  of  a  woman 
of  affairs.  She  drew  quick  lines  and 
signs,  here  and  there;  wrote  in  a  brief 
paragraph  and  expunged  another;  ran 
over  the  whole  once  more  and  took  it 
out  herself  to  the  waiting  boy. 

"Tell  Mr.  Simmons  to  send  it  up 
by  four,  if  it's  a  possible  thing.  Bring 
it  yourself,  won't  you,  Kim? — Then 
you'll  know  it's  done." 

"You  bet  I  will,  Miss  Fletcher." 
The  answer  held  a  note  of  pride.  Af- 
ter this  method  accompanied  by  a  smile 
and  nod,  as  of  confidence,  was  Mary 
accustomed  to  annex  her  henchmen. 
300 


PARTNERSHIP  301 

She  turned  back  to  her  desk.  Beside  it  Harriet  Fenn  sat 
addressing  envelopes — stiff,  correct,  square  envelopes,  cal- 
culated to  impress  the  recipients  favourably.  Harriet's 
handwriting  was  distinctive — firm  and  clearly  black;  just 
the  sort  to  go  with  the  envelopes. 

"The  letter  reads  pretty  well,"  Mary  said,  with  gay  as- 
surance. "I  didn't  know  how  well  till  I  saw  it  set  up.  I 
never  produced  any  short  story  that  gave  me  more  satis- 
faction. If  it  doesn't  bring  results  then  I've  lost  my  grip  on 
English.  But  it's  going  to  go  right  into  their  hearts  and 
their  pockets — or  I'll  change  my  profession." 

Three  hours  later  Harriet,  reading  the  top  sheet  of  the 
great  pile  that  had  come  from  the  printer's,  drew  a  long  sigh 
of  wonder. 

"Mary,  how  did  you  do  it?  That's  the  most  irresistible 
appeal  I  ever  read.  We  have  circular  letters  from  schools  and 
colleges  coming  in  every  week,  and  most  of  them  go  into  the 
waste-basket.  But  nobody  could  put  this  there — nov  after 
the  first  glance." 

"Will  they  give  it  the  first  glance,  Harry?  Yes,  I  think 
they  will.  It's  too  stunning  a  make-up  not  to  get  that  slant- 
wise look  which  will  arrest  it  on  the  way  to  the  waste-basket, 
and  if  they  read  as  far  as  the  third  paragraph  they're  gone. 
The  whole  thing  is  cumulative — if  I  know  the  meaning  of  the 
word.  Excuse  my  conceit,  but  big  things  aren't  done  without 
a  certain  amount  of  confidence  and  cockyness  in  the  doers." 

"  Be  as  cocky  as  you  like,  Mary.  If  you  do  this  thing  we'll 
bless  you  forever.  And  I'm  almost  beginning  to  believe  you 
will,  tremendous  as  it  looks  to  me." 

"It's  not  tremendous  at  all.  A  thousand  seats  at  a  hun- 
dred dollars  a  seat  is  only  modest  modern  method.  The  old 
graduate  who  won't  give  up  a  hundred  dollars  for  his  college 
in  trouble  isn't  worthy  the  name.  As  for  the  music,  the 
pageant,  and  the  play  we're  putting  on  for  him,  if  they're  not 


3o2  FOURSQUARE 

worth  coming  for  they're  not  worth  anything.  I'm  going 
absolutely  crazy  over  that,  and  so  will  you,  when  we  give 
you  a  chance  to  hear  what  Guy  and  I've  worked  out.  Listen 
to  this — it's  Guy's  latest  idea  for  one  of  the  songs,  in  the 
first  and  jolliest  act,  before  things  grow  serious." 

She  sprang  up  and  across  the  hall  to  the  drawing-room. 
Harriet  followed,  to  stand  listening  in  delight  to  the  march 
and  swing  of  the  chorus  that  Mary  dashed  off  the  keyboard, 
and  to  watch,  as  she  was  always  doing  in  woncTer,  the  cap- 
tivating sparkle  of  Mary's  personality  when  she  was  in  the 
mood.  With  the  last  notes  Dr.  Christopher  Reade's  voice 
was  heard  calling  in  at  the  French  window: 

"What's  that,  in  Terpsichore's  name?  I  tried  to  get  by 
but  couldn't.  I  thought  I  was  tired  but  decide  I'm  not — 
while  I'm  hearing  that." 

Mary  swung  round  upon  the  bench.  "Pretty  snappy? 
That  comes  in  the  first  act — male  octette  just  off  the  foot- 
ball field.  Guy's  caught  the  spirit  right  off  the  gridiron, 
hasn't  he?  That  song  will  be  roared  all  over  the  country, 
next  fall." 

Dr.  Reade  came  over  to  her,  regarding  her  intently. 

"This  isn't  hurting  you  a  bit,  that  I  can  see,"  he  admitted. 
"One  trace  of  nervous  fatigue,  and  I  should  put  on  the  brakes. 
You're  actually  thriving  on  hard  work." 

"I'm  glad  you  admit  it.  And  it's  the  best  fun  I've  had 
in  years.  Did  you  go  by  the  campus  this  morning?" 

"I  did — and  was  tempted  to  get  out  and  put  my  shoulder 
under,  just  to  have  a  share.  Things  certainly  are  moving." 

They  were  moving  everywhere.  It  was  the  last  of  August, 
and  in  the  ten  weeks  since  the  fire  wonders  had  been  accom- 
plished. A  faculty  on  its  mettle,  a  large  group  of  students — 
all  who  lived  within  a  radius  of  many  miles  and  considerably 
many  more  from  a  farther  distance — a  townspeople  becoming 
daily  more  and  more  interested,  were  doing  the  work  of  at 


PARTNERSHIP  303 

least  a  hundred  workmen.  Material  was  coming  in  daily, 
and  the  new  building  was  beginning  to  show  definite  outlines 
of  construction.  The  architect  had  been  summoned  from 
the  ranks  of  the  graduates,  and  had  executed  his  drawings  in 
hot  haste,  alive  to  his  chance  to  show  what  could  be  done 
by  a  man  with  vision  and  resource.  The  contractor  was  a 
Newcomb  citizen,  very  proud  of  his  appointment.  The  two 
young  engineers  whom  Mark's  discernment  had  picked 
for  the  task  of  organizing  the  unskilled  labour  offered  by 
the  students  had  proved  to  be  steam  engines  for  work,  and 
had  thrown  themselves  into  their  task  as  only  those  can  who 
have  their  spurs  to  win  and  an  unusual  chance  in  which  to 
win  them. 

Of  course  there  had  been  obstacles,  delays,  all  the  usual 
happenings  attendant  upon  such  undertakings.  Some  of 
the  faculty  had  been  dissatisfied  with  the  architect's  plans, 
criticizing  them  as  too  ambitious.  The  architect,  Wilfred 
Barton,  backed  by  Mark  and  Chilton,  had  had  to  use  every 
argument  to  convince  certain  of  the  opposers  that  this  was 
the  time  to  build  for  the  future.  The  long,  low  building  pro- 
posed, of  college  Gothic  style,  with  its  central  archway  lead- 
ing to  what  would  sometime  be  an  ivied  quadrangle,  after 
the  English  manner,  seemed  to  certain  practical  men  the 
idealistic  aping  of  a  form  not  suited  to  the  more  modern  at- 
mosphere of  the  younger  country.  They  hadn't  hesitated  to 
say  so. 

"Why  not?  Must  energy  express  itself  in  skyscrapers? 
We've  all  the  space  we  need  to  expand  in;  why  not  have  long, 
broad  lines  instead  of  chimney-stack  ones  ?  We  don't  want 
to  look  like  a  cotton  mill,  nor  a  motor  factory!" 

Mark  had  had  his  way.  After  all,  it  was  he  upon  whom 
the  mantle  of  his  father  had  descended.  The  son  of  a  man 
who  kad  had  the  courage  to  rebuild  fifteen  years  ago,  when 


304  FOURSQUARE 

the  resources  of  the  college  were  far  smaller  than  now,  held 
certain  definite  rights  by  virtue  of  his  assuming  this  renewed 
burden.  Also,  Mark  Fenn  had  the  confidence  of  his  associa- 
ates,  both  in  the  college  and  the  town.  He  was  known,  not  as 
a  visionary,  but  as  level-headed  in  all  matters  of  practical 
importance.  And  there  was  no  doubt  but  that  the  architect's 
plans,  as  submitted  and  exhibited  in  a  prominent  down-town 
window,  were  of  a  beauty  and  dignity  to  impress  all  imagina- 
tions except  those  whose  one  principle  seemed  to  be  that 
utility  must  be  ugly. 

It  was  a  busy  summer.  Mary  Fletcher's  campaign  took  on 
large  proportions  as  her  ideas  expanded.  The  replies  to  the 
first  letters  she  had  sent  out  came  in  gratifyingly,  and  by  the 
first  of  August  she  had  sold  more  than  half  of  her  hundred- 
dollar  seats  in  the  amphitheatre  to  be  erected  on  the  campus. 
By  the  end  of  the  month  only  two  score  remained.  As  a 
publicity  expert  she  knew  no  limits.  Cartoons,  posters, 
columns  in  newspapers,  even  a  magazine  article  with  photo- 
graphic illustrations,  were  achieved  by  her  hand.  Every 
particle  of  her  skill  in  writing,  every  ounce  of  her  new  energy, 
she  threw  into  the  scale  against  the  general  apathy  of  an  unin- 
terested public  at  large. 

Early  in  August  John  Kirkwood  had  written  to  ask  if  he 
might  take  two  seats  in  the  front  rows,  and  added : 

Why  haven't  you  told  me  about  it?  Only  by  chance  did  I  come 
upon  your  magazine  article.  It's  corking.  I'm  amazed  and  de- 
lighted. Can't  I  help?  How  about  a  row  of  thousand-dollar 
boxes?  I  believe  you  could  swing  them — fifty  of  them,  at  least,  and 
add  that  much  more  to  your  exchequer.  Mayn't  I  come  up  and 
see  the  good  work  in  action,  right  now?  I  might  have  some  other 
workable  suggestion  for  you,  if  you  don't  think  the  boxes  practical. 

Mary  had  written  back: 

You  may  come  for  the  fete — not  before,  please.  But  I  don't 
want  to  try  the  thousand-dollar  boxes,  though  that  idea  does  appeal 


PARTNERSHIP  305 

gorgeously  to  the  imagination.  I  shouldn't  want  it  to  fail — and 
we're  certain  of  the  audience  on  the  lower  basis.  Thank  you  for 
your  interest — and  I'm  delighted  to  reserve  seats  II  and  12,  row  G 
for  you.  You'll  be  in  good  company.  The  President  and  Mrs. 
Wing  will  be  next  you  on  the  right. 

With  this  he  had  to  be  content,  but  he  employed  himself 
with  helping  to  spread  the  publicity  in  his  own  immediate 
neighbourhood.  Presently  he  sent  her  in  orders  for  ten  more 
tickets,  for  which  she  avowed  herself  duly  grateful.  As  a 
reward  she  sent  him  a  photograph  of  the  campus  in  its  present 
state  of  activity,  which  he  searched  vainly  for  a  hint  of  her 
own  figure. 

One  early  September  evening,  at  a  small  railway  junction 
not  far  from  Newcomb,  Mary  was  pacing  up  and  down,  look- 
ing up  at  the  summer-night  stars,  when  the  train  going  in  the 
opposite  direction  to  the  one  she  awaited  drew  in.  Only  a 
few  passengers  alighted,  and  she  was  abstractedly  observing 
the  uninteresting  outlines  of  those  in  advance  when  a  figure 
of  a  different  character  detached  itself  from  the  rest  and  came 
rapidly  toward  her.  The  light  from  the  station  windows  was 
full  upon  her  face,  and  now  fell  upon  that  of  the  traveller  ap- 
proaching. She  could  see  Mark's  smile  break  out  vividly  as 
he  neared  her.  She  took  an  eager  step  to  meet  him,  and  their 
right  hands  met  in  a  strong  clasp. 

"What  unbelievable  luck!"  He  was  gazing  into  her 
face. 

"  Isn't  it  ?  And  I've  just  learned  my  train  is  twenty  minutes 
late."  She  wasn't  trying  at  all  to  hide  her  pleasure.  Why 
shouldn't  they  be  glad  to  meet?  There  was  so  much  to  tell 
each  other. 

"If  it  hadn't  been  I'd  have  found  a  way  to  delay  it,  if  I'd 
had  to  flag  it  down  the  line  myself.  Well! — Is  it  really  you? 
Last  time  I  rounded  up  at  Newcomb  you  were  off  on  Heaven 


306  FOURSQUARE 

knew  what  aggressive  feature  of  your  campaign.  Is  it  an- 
other that  takes  you  now?  Mary,  I've  just  seen  the  article 
in  The  Olympus.  It's  a  winner!" 

"Is  it?  Time  will  show.  And  the  last  seats  are  filling 
fast  now.  How  does  it  go  with  you?  Any  new  big  sub- 
scriptions?" 

He  ran  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  pushing  back  the  chest- 
nut locks;  his  hat  was  still  in  his  hand.  "Two — but  not  as 
many  of  late  as  I  want — and  need.  August's  been  a  bad 
time  for  seeing  men.  Many  were  off  on  vacation,  and  those 
who  weren't  were  tired  and  irritable.  But  the  thing's  going 
forward — it's  got  to  go." 

"I  believe  you're  tired  yourself."  She  scanned  his  face 
more  closely,  while  he  smiled  back  at  her,  trying  to  let  the 
lines  of  fatigue  relax. 

"It's  been  abominably  hot — as  you  know.  You're  prob- 
ably tired  yourself,  though  you  surely  don't  look  it.  Mary, 
how  is  it  you  keep  so  fresh  and  flexible  ?  You're  working  as 
hard  as  I — harder,  if  the  truth  were  known." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it.  I'm  having  the  experience  of  my  life. 
I  never  was  so  interested — absorbed.  And  you  know  I've 
not  only  the  business  end  of  my  plans  to  look  after,  there's  the 
pageant — and  the  musical  play.  Guy's  doing  such  glorious 
work,  it  keeps  me  inspired.  We're  pushing  along  on  the  last 
act,  now — the  thing  is  mounting,  mounting,  to  its  climax. 
I'm  so  thrilled  with  it  I  go  to  sleep  every  night  with  one  of 
his  songs  in  my  brain." 

"Tell  me  about  it.  Can't  we  find  a  place  to  sit?"  He 
looked  about  him.  The  box  of  a  station  was  shadowy,  ex- 
cept where  the  light  poured  from  the  window  of  the  agent, 
whence  a  fitful  clicking  of  a  telegraph  key  broke  the  quiet. 
The  passengers  had  already  scattered,  except  for  one  who 
paced  at  the  farther  end  of  the  platform.  Far  in  the  distance 
could  be  heard  the  faint  rumble  of  the  receding  train.  A  rod 


PARTNERSHIP  307 

or  two  down  the  line  stood  a  pile  of  railway  ties.  Mark  led 
the  way  toward  this  unconventional  resting  place. 

"Wouldn't  you  rather  hear  first  where  I'm  going  to-night? 
I'm  so  proud  of  this  latest  idea." 

"Tell  me  that,  then.  Anything,  so  that  I  hear  you  speak. 
It  seems  a  year  since  I  heard  the  sound  of  your  voice!" 

"Why,  Mark!"  She  was  smiling.  "I  believe  you're 
homesick." 

"That  may  be  it.  Whatever  it  is,  it's  medicine  for  my 
nostalgia  to  meet  you  here.  If  I'd  reached  Newcomb  again 
to  find  you  gone  I'd  have  been — unhappy.  I've  so  much  to 
tell  you — and  so  much  to  hear.  Well — where  are  you  going? 
And  will  you  be  back  before  to-morrow  night?" 

"I'm  afraid  not.  I'm  going  to  Stevenson  and  the  old 
school.  I'm  going  to  tell  my  story  to  the  boys.  For  my 
father's  sake  and  mine  they'll  be  interested  in  David  Matthew 
^enn,  his  friend,  and  in  Mark  Fenn,  my  friend,  and  in  New- 
comb.  They're  a  rich  and  generous  young  group.  I  think 
they'll  take  ten  tickets,  at  least.  If  they  don't — I've  lost 
my  powers  of  persuasion." 

"You're  not  speaking  there  this  evening?"  He  glanced  at 
his  watch — it  was  half-past  nine. 

"I  was  to  have  spoken  at  the  close  of  a  concert,  but  unless 
it's  prolonged  my  late  train  won't  get  me  there  in  time.  I 
should  have  taken  the  morning  train,  but  was  too  busy. 
You  see  we  have  rehearsal  every  morning  now." 

"Since  you're  to  be  too  late,  you'd  better  go  back  with  me. 
Then  you'll  be  present  at  to-morrow  morning's  rehearsal." 

"Uh,  no — I  wish  I  could.  But  I've  wired  from  here,  and 
they're  expecting  me.  Indeed,  they  proposed  to  send  a  motor 
over,  but  the  train  will  make  it  sooner.  I  imagine  I  shall  get 
my  speech  in  this  evening." 

"I  wish  I  could  hear  it.  Why  can't  I?  It  would  be  a 
new  experience — to  hear  you,  in  such  a  place." 


3o8  FOURSQUARE 

"Come  along.  I'll  be  delighted  to  have  you — if  you're 
not  too  tired." 

Had  he  been  so  weary?  His  sense  of  fatigue,  already  for- 
gotten, vanished  completely  under  this  stimulus.  The  re- 
maining time  passed  all  too  fast,  and  the  incoming  train  was 
boarded  by  two  people  who  looked  as  if  they  were  setting 
out  on  a  happy  adventure. 

At  Stevenson,  reached  quickly  enough  once  the  train  was 
off,  they  were  met  and  rushed  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  to  a 
classic-looking  building  covered  with  ivy,  ablaze  with  lights, 
from  whose  windows  came  sounds  of  music.  Inside,  three 
hundred  youths  gave  Mary  Fletcher  a  spontaneous  and 
thunderous  round  of  applause  the  moment  she  appeared  with 
the  headmaster,  while  a  smiling  faculty  greeted  her  with 
warmth.  Most  of  the  house-masters  and  instructors  had  been 
there  in  her  father's  day,  and  those  who  had  not  knew  Mary 
by  the  traditions.  All  her  infancy  and  girlhood  had  been 
spent  here;  there  were  many  stories  now  current  of  the  days 
when  to  secure  a  dance  with  Dr.  Fletcher's  vivaciously  lovely 
daughter  had  been  the  most  coveted  prize  in  a  chaperon's 
gift.  As  the  present  incumbents  looked  at  her  now  in  her 
rich  and  still  youthful  maturity,  they  could  easily  believe  any 
tales  of  her  popularity. 

Standing  at  the  back  of  the  hall,  according  to  his  desire, 
having  refused  to  take  a  more  prominent  place,  Mark  now  re- 
ceived a  totally  new  impression  of  Mary.  Versatile  as  she 
was,  he  hadn't  imagined  just  how  wonderfully  she  could  do 
this  thing  she  had  set  herself  to  do.  He  had  known,  of  course, 
that  she  would  make  a  charming  speech,  and  that  her  per- 
sonality would  easily  influence,  even  coerce,  the  school's  stu- 
dent body  as  if  it  had  been  one  susceptible  boyish  mind  and 
heart.  But  what  he  hadn't  realized  was  the  effect  the  sight 
and  hearing  of  her  was  to  have  upon  himself;  how  utterly  she 
was  to  capture  and  hold  him,  as  if  he  too  had  been  a  lad  of 


PARTNERSHIP  309 

sixteen  with  every  tendril  of  his  growing  nature  ready  to 
reach  out  and  grasp  at  her.  Yet  it  was  to  his  best  judgment 
as  well  as  to  his  sensibilities  that  she  appealed;  the  quality  of 
her — the  high,  fine  attributes  of  her  mind  and  spirit  as  well 
as  the  magnetism  of  her  face  and  voice,  the  whole  distin- 
guished, beautiful  presence  of  her  as  she  stood  there  speaking 
— it  was  all  Mark  could  do  to  keep  himself  in  hand.  He 
wanted  to  take  her  away  from  them  all  and  tell  her  just 
what  she  had  become. 

There  was  a  rush  at  her  when  she  had  done.  For  half  an 
hour  she  stood  at  the  end  of  the  long  room  while  the  boys 
filed  by  her,  shaking  her  hand,  saying,  "One  seat,  please, 
Miss  Fletcher," — or  "I'm  going  to  write  my  father  about 
this;  I  think  he'll  want  to  subscribe."  Several  of  the  richer 
boys  of  the  school  said  in  low  voices,  and  with  an  evident 
effort  not  to  swagger:  "I'll  take  two  seats."  And  one 
young  nabob  whispered:  "Two  seats — and  I'll  pay  a  thou- 
sand for  'em  if  you'll  make  'em  on  the  front  row.  That's  what 
I  think  of  your  speech,  Miss  Fletcher." 

Altogether,  when  Mary's  eyes  met  Mark's  once  more,  as 
she  rejoined  him,  they  were  full  of  a  joyful  triumph — but  of 
more  than  that.  He  had  little  chance  to  talk  with  her.  He 
was  taking  his  train  back  to  Newcomb  at  midnight,  and  she 
was  going  on  in  the  morning  to  another  engagement,  this  time 
with  a  girl's  school.  But  there  was  a  moment  or  two,  and  he 
made  the  most  of  it. 

"I've  always  known,"  he  said,  "that  the  greatest  thing  I 
could  do  for  any  pupil  of  mine  was  to  enlarge  and  enrich  his 
chance  at  sometime  possessing  a  personality  with  which  to 
accomplish  his  life.  But  I  never  knew  as  I  do  now  just  what 
Heaven  and  your  parents  and  teachers  gave  you.  And  how 
it  has  grown,  Mary !  What  things  you  can  do  with  it.  You 
look  to  me  to-night  like  one  with  a  tremendous  force  in  her 
grasp — the  force  of  herself.  I  congratulate  you — and  envy 


3io  FOURSQUARE 

you — and — am  wonderfully  happy  about  you.  I'm  as  proud 
of  you  as  if  I'd  made  you,  myself." 

"I  suppose  you  don't  know  that  you've  done  your  share," 
she  answered,  quite  simply,  but  with  a  sudden  deepening  o{ 
the  content  in  her  eyes  which  the  success  of  her  effort  had 
brought  there. 

"I  wish  I  thought  so.  I've  done  little,  I  fear,  but  look  on 
at  the  development.  It's  been  an  interesting  thing  to 
watch.  And  to-night  I  saw  its  full  flower." 

"It  wasn't  much  of  a  speech.  I  just — talked  to  them,  as 
I  would  to  my  young  brother  if  I'd  had  one." 

"You  just  talked  to  them.  And  all  the  while  you  were 
giving  out  the  very  essence  of  yourself — filling  their  cups  of 
interest  and  adoration  till  they  spilled  over  in  response. 
They're  not  giving  to  Newcomb,  Mary — they're  giving  to 
you!" 

"No — you're  wrong.  They're  giving  to  the  memory  of  my 
father,  because  he  was  your  father's  friend  and  would  have 
stood  by  him  in  this  crisis." 

He  shook  his  head.  "They're  giving  to  you.  Just  as  I, 
as  I  go  on  about  my  work  of  getting  my  funds,  will  be  giving 
— after  to-night — not  so  much  to  Newcomb  or  even  to  my 
father's  memory — as  to  you.  Because  you've  gone  into  part- 
nership with  me  in  this  thing,  and  the  paramount  interest 
has  become — since  I  heard  you  speak  to-night — to  pull  it 
through  with  you!  It's  put  heart  and  courage  into  me — 
given  me  the  sense  of  being  doubly  strong.  You've  given 
me  the  very  most  subtle  and  beautiful  thing  in  human  friend- 
ship to-night,  Mary — whether  you  know  it  or  not:  a  sort 
of  transfusion  of  the  blood  of  all  virility — the  thing  the  gods 
drink  of  and  then  do  godlike  acts." 

She  could  only  look  at  him  in  amazement.  They  had  been 
taken  into  some  secretary's  office  to  wait  while  somebody 
attended  to  other  guests  and  then  came  back  for  them,  to  take 


PARTNERSHIP  311 

Mark  to  his  train  and  Mary  to  a  hostess  who  was  expecting 
her.  For  the  moment  they  were  still  alone  and  the  sounds 
of  the  departing  audience  had  died  down  to  silence. 

He  smiled  back  at  her,  but  his  eyes  were  deep  with  feeling* 

"I  know,"  he  said.  "You  hardly  recognize  the  staid  Mark 
in  such  a  speech.  You  almost  think  I've  lost  my  head.  You 
see,"  he  went  on  rapidly,  "I  was  so  tired  and  discouraged  to- 
night when  I  met  you  at  the  station,  I  felt  like  giving  it  all  up. 
The  day  had  been  full  of  disappointments — I'd  no  time  to  tell 
you.  Of  course  I  shouldn't  have  given  up — never — it's  not 
in  me  to  do  that.  But  I  was  discovering  the  need  of  some 
elixir  of  life — to  help  me  pull  the  terrific  load  I'd  taken  upon 
myself.  Well — I've  had  it — drunk  deep  of  it.  I  can  do  any- 
thing now,  I  think!" 

"Do  you  mean — /  gave  you  that?" 

"You.  Nobody  but  you.  And  nobody  but  you  could 
have  given  it  to  me." 

The  colour  poured  into  her  face,  making  it  so  warmly  vivid 
that  she  felt  the  impulse  to  put  up  her  hands  for  an  instant  to 
cover  it,  like  a  child.  But  it  was  with  all  a  woman's  self-con- 
trol that  she  met  this  strange  new  look  of  his  which  accom- 
panied this  strange  new  thing  he  had  said. 

"If  that  is  true,"  she  answered  slowly,  "I've  only  paid 
something  of  the  debt  I  owe  you.  It's  what  you've  been 
giving  me,  all  along.  Only  I  never  knew  it — till — just  a 
little  while  ago." 

They  stood  looking  into  each  others'  eyes  for  a  moment,  as 
if  in  wonder  at  the  recognition  of  mutual  bestowment  which 
had  taken  place.  And  then  the  too-brief  interview  was  over; 
others  came;  they  were  piloted  to  the  place  where  the  waiting 
motor  was  to  take  Mark  to  his  train. 

As  Mary,  crossing  the  velvety  turf  of  the  lawn  which  lay 
between  the  hall  of  the  evening's  affairs  and  the  home  of  the 
headmaster,  whejre  she  was  to  be  entertained,  looked  back 


3i2  FOURSQUARE 

at  the  lights  of  Mark's  car  disappearing  down  the  road,  her 
companion,  Dr.  Simonds,  the  head  himself,  spoke  words  to 
which  her  ears  listened  eagerly. 

"That  was  a  particularly  interesting  man,  your  friend, 
Professor  Fenn.  I  shall  hope  to  see  him  again.  I  had  only  a 
word  with  him,  but  in  our  short  talk  his  quality  showed  very 
plainly.  Curious,  isn't  it,  Miss  Fletcher,  this  matter  of  per- 
sonality? A  look,  a  bearing,  half  a  dozen  sentences  ex- 
changed— and  the  thing  is  done.  One  has  an  impression  as 
swift  and  distinct — sometimes  as  permanent — as  the  register- 
ing of  the  sun  upon  the  sensitive  plate  of  the  camera.  A  mo* 
"nent's  contact — and  I  want  to  see  the  man  again — know  that 
I  should  like  him — feel  that  I  should  believe  in  him.  I'm 
glad  you  brought  him." 

"I'm  glad  too,"  said  Mary  to  herself.  "Oh,  how  glad  I 
am!" 


CHAPTER  XIX 
BLUE  AND  PURPLE 

OW  very,  very  interesting — and  origi- 
nal !  What  a  conception !  Is  it  yours, 
Mary  ?  Of  course  it  must  be." 

"You  do  me  great  honour,  Sandy. 
But  it  isn't  mine,  except  in  the  vaguest 
form  imaginable.  It's  P^rry  Gilfillan 
who  has  worked  it  out.  It  is  pretty 
fine,  isn't  it?  Oh,  I'm  so  glad  you 
could  be  here.  It  needed  you  to  make 
the  whole  thing  perfect  for  me,  you 
know." 

Alexandra  Warren,  prepossessingly 
trim  and  tailored,  had  been  brought 
by  Mary  straight  from  the  train  to 
the  college  campus,  to  view  the  active 
preparations  for  the  event  which  was 
now  only  two  days  off.  The  two 
stood  looking  toward  a  scene  in  which 
many  workmen  were  engaged — work- 
men who  were  palpably  of  the  student 
class,  and  whose  looks  were  as  eager 
as  their  voices.  Seats  for  the  thou- 
sand patrons  of  Mary's  bidding  had 
been  prepared  in  amphitheatre  form 
looking  toward  the  great  stage  formed 
by  the  foundation  and  flooring  of  the 
long  building  in  process  of  erection- 


3i4  FOURSQUARE 

Its  walls  at  back  and  side  had  risen  to  the  height  of  one  story, 
but  the  front  had  been  left  open,  with  only  the  steel  construc- 
tion pillars  showing,  and  these  had  been  garlanded  out  of  sight 
with  ropes  of  evergreeen.  Shrubbery  had  been  temporarily 
planted  to  screen  and  soften  the  foundation  stone,  and  a 
picturesque  enclosure  for  an  orchestra  had  been  arranged. 

"All  that's  rough  and  unsightly  is  to  be  hidden  with 
masses  of  green,"  Mary  explained.  "And  the  whole  interior 
is  to  be  hung  with  a  wonderful  drapery  of  blue  and  purple. 
That  can't  go  up  till  the  last  minute,  for  fear  of  rain.  Oh, 
pray,  Sandy,  just  •pray  that  this  September  heat  and  haze 
may  last  three  days  longer.  It's  ideal  to-day — it  must  last!" 

"I  think  it  will.  It's  the  season  for  such  weather — you've 
probably  chosen  wisely.  What  a  stage,  Mary — and  what  a 
setting  all  around!" 

"Yes,  isn't  it  perfect?  But  we  mustn't  stay  to  look  at  it. 
I've  a  rehearsal  in  fifteen  minutes — we  must  go  down  to  the 
house,  where  I'll  give  you  time  to  get  out  of  your  smart 
travellies  and  into  something  cooler.  You're  looking  wonder- 
fully well,  Sandy.  It's  been  good  for  you  to  be  loose  from  me 
for  so  long." 

The  two  gave  each  other  that  comprehensive  survey  which 
two  friends  may  exchange,  smiling  yet  searching. 

"It  certainly  seems  to  have  been  good  for  you.  Mary, 
you've — the  only  word  I  can  think  of  to  express  it  is — 
bloomed!  I  never  imagined  such  a  change.  And  with  all 
this  work  on  your  shoulders — how  have  you  managed  it?" 

"  It's  sweet  Rosie  O'Grady,  of  whom  I've  written  you  so 
many  pages.  She  makes  me  keep  myself  fit.  That's  the 
whole  story.  Wait  till  you  meet  her  and  you'll  understand." 

They  went  down  to  the  house  talking  busily  all  the  way. 
The  big  guest-room  above  the  drawing-room  was  in  its  usual 
peaceful  order,  but  it  seemed  to  Alexandra  that  the  entire 
remainder  of  the  house  was  given  over  to  the  activities  of  the 


BLUE  AND  PURPLE  315 

approaching  festival.  People  were  constantly  coming  and  go- 
ing. From  the  drawing-room  rose  the  sound  of  musical  voices — 
solos,  duets — a  male  chorus,  accompanied  by  several  instru- 
ments. On  the  rear  porch  a  group  of  girls  and  women  were 
sewing  on  masses  of  purple  and  blue  cloth — the  draperies 
of  which  Mary  had  spoken. 

"I'm  most  anxious  for  you  to  know  my  young  composer," 
Mary  had  said.  When  Alexandra  came  down  in  her  kilted 
green-and-white  skirt  and  green  sweater,  her  small  green  silk 
hat  pulled  well  over  her  smooth  hair,  Mary  gave  a  little  cry  of 
pleasure  and  led  her  toward  the  drawing-room. 

"The  rehearsal's  over,  and  you'll  be  a  refreshing  sight  for 
Guy's  eyes.  He's  crazy  over  those  jade  greens  worn  so  much 
now;  the  boy's  developed  a  splendid  colour  sense  along  with 
his  other  creative  instincts.  It  was  he  who  insisted  on  the 
blue  and  purple  for  our  backgrounds — says  he's  been  hearing 
blue  and  purple  all  through  his  composition.  Mr.  Gilfillan 
was  amazed  at  him — and  so  interested  in  his  ideas.  We  have 
a  lot  of  jade  green  to  go  with  one  of  his  songs — and  I'll  admit 
it  does  fit.  Come — they've  all  gone  out  on  the  porch,  and 
he's  alone  in  here  for  the  minute.  I've  arranged  it  that 
way — I  want  you  to  get  your  first  impression  of  my  young 
genius." 

As  the  two  went  into  the  long,  dignified  old  room  that  Alex- 
andra had  remembered  with  such  warm  admiration,  she  re- 
ceived quite  as  distinct  an  impression  as  Mary  could  have 
wished,  though  not,  perhaps,  wholly  the  one  that  Mary  had 
intended.  A  slim  figure  in  blue  coat  and  white  flannel 
trousers,  a  blue  tie  knotted  under  the  pointed  chin,  fair  hair 
thrust  back  from  the  wide  forehead,  got  to  its  feet  from  the 
piano  bench  with  a  pair  of  crutches  and  stood  waiting.  Blue 
eyes  on  fire  with  excitement  gazed  straight  at  Mary;  Guy 
Carter  seemed  not  to  have  so  much  as  a  glance  for  the  visitor 
until  Mary  presented  him.  Then  he  gave  her  a  stiff  little 


FOURSQUARE 

formal  bow  which  showed  her  the  top  of  his  head,  and  looked 
directly  back  at  Mary.  Even  in  that  very  first  sight  of  him 
Alexandra  recognized  the  fact — he  was  Mary's,  every  nerve 
and  fibre  of  him. 

But  he  was  also  the  man  of  action,  of  authority.  Boyish 
as  he  looked,  Alexandra  understood  that  the  composer  of 
"Present  Arms!"  who  had  now  achieved  a  new  musical  play 
called  The  Light  on  the  Road,  was  a  personage  to  be  con- 
sulted, deferred  to,  sometimes  even  to  be  pacified.  Tempera- 
ment, in  all  its  variety  of  manifestations,  was  to  be  reckoned 
with  in  a  young  genius  of  unstable  physical  equipment  who 
had  been  working  for  many  months  at  high  pressure,  and 
whose  hopes  were  now  upon  the  verge  of  fulfillment.  The 
first  words  from  his  lips  gave  evidence  of  the  tension  under 
which  he  was  seeing  through  these  last  rehearsals. 

"I've  been  having  the  devil's  own  time  with  that  Mr. 
Hamilton,"  he  burst  out.  "He^thinks  he  knows  it  all,  and  he 
comes  mighty  near  singing  off  key.  -I've  got  to  have  the 
horn  give  him  the  lead,  every  time,  to  keep  him  on  it. 
And  that  makes  him  mad — and  then  we  have  it.  Oh,  this 
last-minute  stuff  is  enough  to  drive  a  fellow  out  of  his 
senses!" 

"I  know — I  feel  much  the  same  way.  When  I  get  too 
much  wound  up  I  run  off  by  myself  and  calm  down.  But 
really,  everything's  going  splendidly,  Guy.  And  I  do  want 
my  friend,  Miss  Warren,  to  hear  from  you  just  a  bit  about 
the  play.  If  you  have  time  to  tell  her,  it  will  be  the  only 
chance." 

Guy  frowned.  "I'm  afraid  I  haven't  got  the  time,  just 
now. — Well,  just  a  word,  then.  But  why  don't  you  tell  her, 
Miss  Fletcher?  She  wrote  the  whole  thing,  you  see," — he 
turned  to  Alexandra — "I  just  put  the  music  to  it." 

"Suppose,  after  all,  neither  of  us  tells  her,"  Mary  suggested 
quickly.  She  saw  that  Guy  was  really  very  much  on  edge, 


BLUE  AND  PURPLE  317 

for  some  fresh  reason  she  didn't  understand.  "We'll  let  it 
break  upon  her  without  warning,  as  it's  to  do  on  the  rest  of 
the  audience." 

"Much  better,"  Guy  murmured,  with  a  look  of  relief. 
"Now  I'm  off  for  the  stage.  If  I'm  not  there  for  orchestra 
practice  something'll  go  wrong." 

Alexandra  met  them  all  presently — those  whom  she  had 
known  before  and  the  new  members  of  Mary's  personnel. 
Rose  O'Grady  came  rushing  in  for  luncheon,  fresh  from  the 
task  of  bandaging  an  injured  shoulder.  A  big  sophomore, 
who  was  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  play,  had  received  the  brunt  of 
a  falling  beam  and  must  be  made  fit  again  in  ^  hurry.  Alex- 
andra was  delighted  with  Rose,  as  Mary  had  foreseen. 

"She  says  you've  done  it,  Miss  O'Grady — transformed  her 
from  a  pale  shadow  to  this  splendid  creature  I  see  before  me. 
Your  methods  ought  to  be  spread  abroad." 

"Faith,  'tis  no  secret.  Health  may  be  had  for  the  bit  of 
pains  any  one  should  be  ashamed  not  to  take.  Miss  Mary's 
learned  the  law  of  supply  and  demand,  that's  all;  to  supply 
more  than  she  demands — that's  the  whole  story.  Nature's 
a  fine  debtor  but  a  hard  creditor.  Miss  Mary  had  to  pay  ?  jr 
bill — and  go  to  prison  too.  Now — the  balance  is  in  her 
favour,  praises  be.  And  it's  proud  I  am  to  have  helped  teach 
her  the  lesson." 

"Lessons — lessons — I've  had  plenty  of  them,  Sandy.  Dr. 
Reade's  been  another  teacher.  And  here  he  is  this  minute 
— and  Professor  Chilton  with  him.  I  asked  them  up  to  meet 
you.  Mr.  Chilton's  just  in  from  a  trip  for  funds.  Come 
out  to  the  table,  everybody.  I  hoped  Mr.  Fenn  would  be 
here,  too,  but  he's  still  missing." 

Alexandra  felt  her  interest  quickening  every  minute.  It 
was  like  Mary,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  rush,  to  ask  guests  to 
luncheon  to  meet  her  friend.  Harriet  Fenn  came  over,  also — 
it  was  quite  a  party,  though  so  informal  that  two  extra  people. 


3i8  FOURSQUARE 

arriving  on  errands,  were  urged  to  remain  and  places  hur- 
riedly arranged  for  them.  Several  times  Mary  was  summoned 
from  the  table;  messages  were  brought  to  her  by  note  and 
wire;  altogether  the  atmosphere  was  electric  with  the  sense  of 
something  coming  to  which  all  were  keyed. 

"It's  really  rather  a  big  thing  these  people  are  putting 
through,"  Dr.  Reade  observed  to  Alexandra,  next  whom  he 
sat.  "I'm  an  outsider,  of  course,  having  no  part  except 
that  of  general  promoter  as  the  chance  comes  in  my  practice. 
But  I've  been  watching  it  all  for  weeks,  and  I'll  admit  I'm 
almost  as  excited  and  enthusiastic  as  they.  The  propaganda 
has  got  into  my  blood,  too — it's  been  of  a  rather  unusual 
effectiveness." 

"I  don't  think  such  a  thing  has  ever  been  done,  in  just  such 
a  way,  has  it?"  Alexandra  questioned. 

"Not  to  our  knowledge.  Festivals  and  pageants  and  plays 
on  classic  lines  have  been  done  a  thousand  times,  of  course. 
And  money  has  been  raised,  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  But 
there's  been  something  about  this  whole  campaign  that's 
made  it  unique.  One  person  has  dominated  it,  and  that 
person  will  be  the  centre  of  it  all  to  the  end — a  mere  girl,  at 
that — a  girl  in  effect,  at  least.  And  without  making  herself 
any  part  of  the  show  itself — staying  constantly  in  the  wings. 
But  inspiring,  stimulating,  keeping  everybody  up  to  the 
mark.  I  tell  you,  Miss  Warren,  it's  remarkable." 

"And  you,  as  her  physician,  have  felt  it  safe  to  let  her  do 
it?" 

His  answer  was  a  significant  glance  toward  Mary  herself, 
where  she  sat  at  the  head  of  her  table,  the  silver  bowl  of  roses 
in  the  centre  of  the  table  not  fresher  or  more  enchanting  than 
she. 

"  You  see  for  yourself.  There's  no  rouge  or  powder  on  that 
skin,  no  '  beautifier '  in  those  eyes.  There's  certainly  no  sup- 
porting drug  in  her  system.  I  admit  she's  astonished  me — 


BLUE  AND  PURPLE  319 

I  can't  wholly  account  for  it,  closely  as  I've  watched  her. 
She  seems  to  have  come  upon  some  hidden  spring  of  vitality 
and  to  drink  of  it  all  the  time.  She's  done  work  enough  to 
tire  out  a  strong  man — but,  well — what  can  be  said  except  that 
it's  been  a  tonic  of  the  most  powerful  sort  ?" 

Alexandra  was  obliged  to  believe  him.  But  her  interest, 
not  to  say  her  wonder,  was  intensely  aroused.  It  was  im- 
possible not  to  see  that  Mary  was,  as  Dr.  Reade  had  said, 
the  focus  upon  which  all  rays  converged,  the  very  burning 
point  of  fire  and  energy.  Alexandra  had  never  known  Mary 
except  as  a  writer,  absorbed  in  the  production  of  her  own 
wares;  keen  for  experience  that  she  could  use,  avid  for  sen- 
sation of  every  sort;  constantly  feeling  her  own  pulse  to  get 
her  own  reactions.  Though  Alexandra  had  never  been  will- 
ing to  admit  it  to  herself,  Mary  had  been  thoroughly  self- 
centred;  her  ambitions  had  been  all  in  the  way  of  her  own 
fame;  it  had  been  only  her  personal  charm  which  had  held  her 
friend  to  her — Mary  had  never  returned  to  her  a  tenth  of  the 
real  devotion  Alexandra  had  lavished  upon  her.  So  it  had 
been  with  every  relation — Mary  had  taken — she  had  not 
given  in  return  except  as  she  had  cared  to  give.  Now,  every- 
thing seemed  changed.  Instead,  for  instance,  of  poking  fun 
at  Newcomb,  the  small  college  in  the  small  town,  with  no 
country-wide  reputation,  she  was  working  for  it,  heart  and 
soul.  She  was  throwing  into  this  effort  everything  she  had 
to  give,  lavishing  upon  it  her  stores  of  wit  and  invention, 
challenging  the  world  to  come  and  see  that  here  was  every 
educational  advantage  that  could  be  found  anywhere.  How 
had  it  happened?  What  had  made  the  difference?  Her 
friend  wanted  very  much  to  know.  Meanwhile,  of  one  thing 
she  was  certain.  Not  in  her  most  attractive  aspect  of  days 
gone  by  had  Mary  given  promise  of  that  which  she  had  be- 
come— a  creature  vital,  forceful,  and  yet  so  lavish  in  her  use 
of  her  own  beauty  and  power  that  there  was  left  no  hint  of  the 


320  FOURSQUARE 

old  arrogance,  only  a  warm  and  life-giving  touch  upon  each 
other  being  with  whom  she  came  in  contact. 

"And  you  haven't  a  part  in  the  play — or  in  anything?" 
Alexandra  marvelled,  as  on  the  second  morning  after  her 
arrival  she  watched  Mary  dress  for  the  day.  It  was  the  great 
day,  and  it  had  dawned  in  all  its  September  gorgeousness. 
The  heat  was  that  of  summer  and  rather  greater  than  was 
quite  desirable,  but  the  cloudlessness  of  the  sky  and  the 
promise  of  freedom  from  the  difficulties  which  rain  would 
have  produced  in  all  this  outdoor  festival-making  reconciled 
everybody  to  the  undue  warmth. 

Mary's  glance  was  understanding.  "Not  a  part.  Are 
you  surprised?  I  suppose  you  expected  me  to  put  myself 
in  the  centre  of  the  stage.  Ride  a  white  horse  at  the  head  of 
the  pageant,  and  be  crowned  queen  or  something  in  front  of 
the  blue-and-purple  drapery.  I  admit  it  would  be  quite  in 
character — and  rather  fun  to  ride  the  white  horse,  at  least. 
But  I  have  quite  all  I  want  to  do,  behind  the  scenes,  and  I 
shouldn't  be  half  as  happy  in  front  of  them.  As  a  compro- 
mise I'm  going  to  look  as  nice  as  I  can,  in  my  role  of  general 
handy  man.  Tell  me  how  you  like  me." 

It  seemed  to  Alexandra  that  Mary  actually  shone!  It  was 
only  a  trim  little  white  serge  suit  she  wore,  with  white  shoes 
and  tight  little  white  hat  with  crisp-looking  wings,  but  she 
might  have  posed  as  a  model  for  a  feminine  Hermes  of  modern 
times,  so  winged  was  the  whole  look  of  her.  Her  eyes  were 
darker  than  ever  under  the  close-drawn  hat-brim — their 
glance  was  the  quickest,  most  shining  thing  imaginable. 

"The  Professor's  back — he's  asking  for  you  downstairs,  Miss 
Mary,"  Rose  announced,  coming  in.  "Whist!  and  it's  more 
new  clothes,  is  it?  I  believe  you  got  them  for  the  occasion." 

"Of  course  I  did!  Think  of  the  people  I'm  to  meet  to-day. 
I'm  going  to  the  train  now  to  welcome  two  college  presidents 


BLUE  AND  PURPLE  321 

and  a  real  dignitary  in  the  literary  line.  It's  my  duty  to 
impress  them  with  the  fact  that  we're  not  a  back-woods 
institution,  and  what  can  do  it  so  certainly  as  the  right 
clothes?  Besides — you  two  look  pretty  smart  yourselves — • 
Miss  Warren  in  that  clever  gray  and  lavender  effect,  Miss 
O'Grady  in  what  I  call  a  mighty  knowing  black  and  white, 
and  just  the  thing  to  go  with  her  wondrous  hair — if  I  did 
choose  it  for  her.  Who's  to  say  anything  about  new  clothes?'* 

Mary  was  off  down  the  stairs.  Rose's  following  glance 
returned  to  Alexandra. 

"I'm  glad  the  Professor's  back.  He's  looking  worn  with 
the  work  he's  been  doing  all  summer — it  was  a  task  for  a 
Titan.  But  when  he  catches  sight  of  Miss  Mary  Fletcher 
as  she's  looking  to-day — I'm  thinking  he'll  forget  how  tired 
he  is.  It's  an  odd  thing,  Miss  Warren,  when  you  think  of  it; 
but  dusky  eyes  and  hair  like  hers  under  a  little  white  hat 
like  that  can  look  to  have  more  colour  than  a  whole  rainbow! 
She'll  dazzle  the  eyes  of  him — and  his  eyes  need  dazzling,  he's 
been  looking  so  long  at  folks  explaining  why  they  should  like 
to  give  more — but  can't. " 

Downstairs  Mark  and  Mary  were  meeting  in  the  cool  and 
shaded  drawing-room,  rich  with  flowers  from  the  garden 
everywhere. 

"I  was  beginning  to  be  afraid  you  wouldn't  be  heie  in 
time  to  play  host,"  she  said,  as  they  shook  hands. 

"I  delayed  twenty-four  hours — and  have  ten  thousand 
dollars  to  show  for  it.  But  I  wouldn't  have  missed  being 
here  to-day  for  ten  thousand  more. — Mary,  you  haven't  been 
through  a  campaign,  you've  been  sitting  on  an  island  in  the 
sun!" 

"A  pretty  populous  island,  then,"  she  assured  him,  "with 
all  kinds  of  craft  coming  into  my  harbour." 

They  were  openly  taking  observations  upon  each  other, 
and  the  result  seemed  satisfying. 


322  FOURSQUARE 

"You're  not  looking  half  as  worn  as  when  I  saw  you,  that 
evening  at  Stevenson,"  Mary  said. 

"I'm  not  half  as  worn.  In  fact,  I'm  not  worn  at  all.  From 
that  hour  I've  been  carrying  no  load — the  load  carried  me. 
I  was  a  trifle  weary  when  I  came  into  town  an  hour  ago,  but 
hot  water  and  clean  clothes  have  made  me  feel  like  a  new  man. 
And  now  that  I  see  you — Mary,  this  is  a  wonderful  day!  I 
think  it's  going  to  be  the  greatest  day  in  my  history — I  hope 
it  is  in  yours." 

"I'm  sure  it  is.  And  I  suppose  we  must  both  be  off  this 
very  minute.  I'm  meeting  some  personages  at  the  train  in 
just  fifteen  minutes — the  car  is  waiting  for  me.  Don't  you 
want  to  go  along?  And  aren't  we  in  luck  to  have  such 
weather?" 

They  went  out  upon  the  porch,  still  saying  casual  things. 
Yet  each  was  aware  of  the  other  in  the  way  which  means 
Btrong  mutual  interest.  As  never  before  Mary  was  conscious 
that  Mark  Fenn  looked  every  inch  the  man  in  a  way  she  had 
always  known  him  to  do,  yet  never  fully  appreciated  until 
now.  As  they  stood  waiting  upon  the  station  platform  she 
felt  herself  proud  of  his  companionship.  She  recalled  what 
the  headmaster  of  Stevenson  had  said  of  him — the  impression 
had  been  instantly  one  of  force  and  charm.  She  realized 
now  that  he  must  make  that  impression  upon  any  intelligent 
stranger;  she  was  glad  to  have  him  by  her  side  as  she  received 
her  distinguished  guests. 

The  train  drew  in.  Mary  looked  for  President  Wesley  and 
Dean  Grier,  and  saw  them  far  down  the  platform.  As  she 
and  Mark  went  to  meet  them  a  tall  figure  stepped  off  the 
Pullman  at  her  side  and  turned  to  help  down  a  slenderly  small 
one  which  followed.  Mary  stopped  short,  for  John  Kirkwood 
wheeled,  sweeping  off  his  hat7  and  drew  forward  by  one  hand 
the  girl  who  accompanied  him. 

"Maryl    This  is  great  luck,  though  we  meant  to  surprise 


BLUE  AND  PURPLE  323 

you.  Miss  Fletcher,  let  me  present  Miss  Langley. — How 
do  you  do,  Professor  Fenn!  Miss  Langley,  this  is  Professor 
Fenn,  of  Newcomb — destined  some  day  to  become  its  presi- 
dent." 

For  the  instant  Mary  forgot  her  expected  guests  for  these 
others,  one  of  whom  was  most  certainly  unexpected.  She 
gave  Sibley  Langley  her  hand,  looking  down  into  a  piquant, 
laughing  face,  whose  bright  and  rather  intriguingly  narrow 
brown  eyes  seemed  to  be  turned  upon  her  like  a  pair  of  little 
telescopes.  Miss  Langley  was  a  slip  of  a  thing,  perfectly 
dressed,  with  a  touch  of  daring  in  her  modishness,  and  all  the 
air  of  one  accustomed  to  be  liked  and  entirely  at  home  every- 
where. Yet  her  manner  to  Mary  had  in  it  a  pretty  hint  of 
deference,  more  effective  than  the  words  she  was  too  wise  to 
speak. 

"Will  you  forgive  us  ? "  Miss  Langley  had  a  musically  soft 
voice,  with  a  suggestion  of  a  Southern  drawl  which  hardly 
matched  the  quick  glances  of  her  eyes.  "I  so  wanted  to 
come  I  fairly  bribed  Mr.  Kirkwood  to  bring  me,  though  Fm 
sure  he  didn't  quite  approve  of  it.  I  knew  you  would  take 
care  of  me  somehow,  among  your  guests." 

"Yes,  of  course,  I  shall  be  charmed  to  have  you  as  my 
guest,"  Mary  said,  "even  though  we're  just  a  bit  too  full 
at  the  house  to  be  able  to  look  after  Mr.  Kirkwood.  It 
was  really  very  wonderful  of  you  to  come  and  to  surprise 
us." 

"My  sister  and  I  will  take  care  of  Mr.  Kirkwood,  with 
pleasure."  Mark  came  to  the  rescue.  "And  now,  Mary — 
here  are  your  other  guests  " — and  he  gently  turned  her  about 
barely  in  time  to  halt  the  two  strangers  in  silk  hats  and 
formal  morning  dress  who  had  been  approaching  and  upon 
whom  he  had  been  keeping  a  watchful  eye. 

Kirkwood  and  Miss  Langley  at  a  few  paces  distant 
watched  the  meeting,  the  eyes  of  both  missing  nothing. 


324  FOURSQUARE 

"You  didn't  prepare  me  for  Professor  Fenn,"  Miss  Langley 
whispered.  " '  Country  college  professor '  doesn't  seem  to  fit 
him.  He's  stunningly  good  looking  in  his  severe  and  quiet 
way." 

"He's  been  to  a  real  tailor  in  preparation  for  this  event," 
Kirkwood  murmured  in  return.  "I'll  admit  he  does  look 
rather  more  sophisticated  than  I  remembered  him.  How 
does  his  companion  strike  you?" 

"Oh — as  all  you  could  ask,  of  course.  That  goes  without 
saying.  She's  very  charming.  Only  I  thought  of  her  as 
more  of  an  invalid." 

"Invalid!"  Kirkwood  had  some  ado  to  restrain  his  mirth 
as  his  absorbed  gaze  continued  to  rest  upon  Mary.  "Good 
heavens!  She  looks  like  Hebe  and  Diana  combined.  Never 
was  she  so  young  and  valiant." 

The  big  car  took  them  all  to  the  Graham  house,  where  Miss 
Langley  looked  about  her  in  amazement.  She  hadn't  been 
prepared  for  the  dignified  old  place.  Mary  took  her  to  her 
own  room,  mentally  arranging  for  herself  a  couch  in  Alex- 
andra's. 

"Such  a  delightful  house,"  the  young  guest  said,  with  real 
appreciation.  "Only  I  somehow  know  you're  giving  me  your 
room,  Miss  Fletcher.  I'd  beg  you  not — only — if  you'll  let 
me  say  so — itVsuch  a  lovely  honour  to  have  it.  I  shan't  for- 
get. Mr.  Kirkwood  has  always  raved  about  you  so — and 
now  I  know  why." 

"Mr.  Kirkwood  has  many  enthusiasms — among  them 
yourself,  Miss  Langley.  And  it  was  so  good  of  you  to  come 
to  do  honour  to  our  great  day.  You  won't  mind,  though,  will 
you,  if  I'm  a  very  casual  hostess?  There  are  so  many  last- 
minute  things  to  see  to,  you  know." 

"Oh,  of  course.  And  we  shall  be  entirely  self-reliant — 
just  don't  have  us  on  your  mind,  please.  Mr.  Kirkwood  and 
I  simply  wanted  to  prove  to  you  how  interested  we  are." 


BLUE  AND  PURPLE  325 

Mutual  felicitations  and  conventionalities  thus  quickty 
disposed  of,  Mary  soon  vanished,  not  to  appear  again  till 
luncheon.  Meanwhile,  Alexandra  Warren  and  Rose  O'Grady 
assumed  the  care  of  the  various  guests  who  arrived  from  time 
to  time,  now  and  then  meeting  to  exchange  amused  com- 
ments. Though  so  different  in  personality  and  experience, 
the  two  had  taken  to  each  other  as  those  do  who  find  common 
ground. 

"That  little  person  with  the  eyes  like  gimlets,"  said  Rose, 
in  a  corner  of  the  wide  hall  where  she  had  run  upon  Alex- 
andra unexpectedly,  "is  losing  nothing  she  can  bore  them 
into,  at  all.  I  hear  she's  a  writer.  I'm  thinking  her  next 
novel  will  have  us  all  in." 

"She's  very  pretty  and  clever,  isn't  she?"  Alexandra  re- 
turned, smiling. 

"She's  gone  a  bit  crazy  about  the  Professor.  She's  had 
him  walking  down  the  garden  with  her — and  him  looking  at 
his  watch  every  two  minutes  when  she  chanced  to  be  turned 
the  other  way — which  was  seldom.  I  thought  she'd  be  break- 
ing her  little  neck,  looking  up  at  him.  He  got  away,  though, 
sooner  than  pleased  her.  And  him  wanting  to  be  with  Miss 
Mary — and  never  getting  a  chance." 

"Nobody  can  get  a  chance  at  Mary  to-day.  Yet  she's 
everywhere." 

She  was  everywhere.  The  last  draping  of  the  blue-and- 
purple-curtains — with  Mr.  Perry  Gilfillan  at  her  elbow.  The 
final  hearing  of  one  brief  scene  which  had  gone  badly  at 
rehearsal  the  evening  before.  A  consultation  with  Guy 
Carter,  who  was  so  nervous  .he  could  hardly  control  himself, 
yet  ready  to  be  wildly  happy  at  a  hint  from  Mary  that  she 
understood  and  didn't  think  him  a  weak  fool  because  of  his 
shaking  fingers. 

"If  you're  only  satisfied  I  can  bear  everything  else,"  he 
Said,  his  strained  gaze  on  her  face.  "Oh,  Miss  Fletcher,  if 


3a6  FOURSQUARE 

you  could  see  yourself  to-day — you  wouldn't  wonder  I — want 
to  please  you." 

"Listen  to  me,  Guy.  If  everything  else  went  wrong-— 
which  it  won't,  it's  going  to  go  splendidly — one  thing  you've 
done  would  be  worth  it  all  to  me." 

"What's  that?    Please  tell  me — maybe  it'll  steady  me." 

"The  music  for  the  last  song — "The  Light  on  the  Road." 
That's  mine,  Guy,  to  keep." 

"Oh! " 

But  she  didn't  dare  to  linger  with  him — his  heart  was  too 
plainly  on  his  sleeve  when  she  was  by.  She  ran  away  to 
others  who  needed  her — an  anxious  young  soprano,  a  group 
of  boys  who  had  a  difficult  small  part  and  only  wanted  her 
encouragement.  There  were  the  usual  number  of  small 
details  to  be  seen  to — last  minute  happenings  which  it  took 
resource  to  adjust:  a  lost  trumpet,  a  torn  flag,  the  non- 
arrival  of  a  painted  brick  wall  promised  yesterday  and  still 
unaccounted  for.  Mary  did  her  best  to  keep  cool,  but  now 
and  then  had  to  set  a  watch  upon  herself  lest  she  lose  the 
poise  she  needed  so  much  to  hold. 

Just  before  luncheon  she  came  into  the  house  by  way  of  a 
small  side  entrance  under  the  staircase,  and  evading  the  sight 
of  any  guest  made  her  way  up  to  Rose's  room.  Here  she 
slipped  out  of  her  outer  garments  and  lay  down  upon  Rose's 
bed  with  both  arms  outstretched.  Two  minutes  later  the 
owner  of  the  room  appeared  in  the  doorway  and  stopped 
short,  nodding  her  approval. 

Mary  waved  a  white  arm  at  her.  "Just  catching  up,"  she 
said. 

Rose  came  over.  "You're  the  wise  girl,"  she  approved, 
and  passed  her  own  cool  fingers  up  and  up  tke  satiny  firm 
skin,  nurse  fashion.  "You're  doing  nobly  but  you  have  to 
breathe,  now  and  then.  We're  all  quite  busy  with  the 
questions  they're  all  asking.  Faith,  I  know  those  questions 


BLUE  AND  PURPLE  327 

by  heart. — 'What  is  the  size  of  Newcomb,  can  you  tell  me, 
Miss  O'Grady? ' — 'When  did  I  understand  the  new  building 
was  begun?' — 'Miss  Fletcher  seems  to  have  accomplished 
great  things — it  is  quite  remarkable,  isn't  it?' — But  the  little 
one  with  the  piercing  eyes  has  it  all  over  the  rest  for  curiosity. 
What  she  doesn't  know  about  Mary  Fletcher  by  now  is  what 
Miss  Alexandra  and  Rosie  O'Grady  haven't  told  her!" 

Mary  laughed.  "  How  do  you  manage  it  ?  And  what  does 
she  want  to  know?" 

"Everything — and  then  some.  But  she's  clever.  You 
hardly  know  she's  asking  questions — till  you  find  yourself 
biting  your  tongue  to  pinch  back  the  answer.  But  the  thing 
she  wants  to  know  is — if  Miss  Fletcher  is  engaged  to  marry 
anybody." 

"She  hasn't  asked  that!" 

"Oh,  no — she  hasn't  asked  that.  Of  course  not.  She's 
the  lady — entirely.  But  I've  had  a  hard  time  not  to  tell  her. 
Ail  roads  lead  the  same  way — and  no  sign-post  till  you've 
nearly  taken  them.  She's  a  beguilin'  way  with  her — that 
innocent.  I  could  quite  like  her — if  I  didn't  heartily  dislike 
her!" 

"Rosie— I  love  you!" 

"Do  you,  now?  Then — play  up  to  her.  Don't  walk 
away  and  leave  her  guessing — the  way  you  like  to  do.  Load 
your  pistols,  shake  hands,  walk  back  ten  paces — and  fire!" 

"You  homicidal  person!    Suppose  I  don't  care  to?" 

"Oh,  well — there's  no  need.  You've  everything  in  your 
own  hands — and  on  your  hands  too.  I  just  like  to  see  a 
bloody  deed  now  and  then,  instead  of  such  politeness.  It's 
more  satisfyin'." 

Rose  was  always  refreshing,  and  when,  a  few  minutes  after- 
ward, every  smooth  hair  again  in  place,  Mary  slipped  down  to 
rejoin  her  guests  at  luncheon,  she  felt  almost  as  fit  as  in  the 
morning.  A  cup  of  her  own  deliciously  strong  and  fragrant 


328  FOURSQUARE 

coffee  completed  the  revival,  and  after  it  she  was  ready  for 
the  afternoon,  with  all  its  demands. 

The  pageant,  a  thousand  participants,  wound  its  pictur- 
esque way  along  the  campus,  passed  across  the  great  stage 
before  the  classic  blue-and-purple  draperies.  In  the  seats  a 
thousand  patrons  watched  and  applauded.  From  the  or- 
chestra rose  martial  strains.  A  concert,  with  soloists  from 
abroad,  and  a  fine  male  quartette  from  at  home,  occupied  two 
hours  of  the  afternoon.  The  college  glee-and-string  club  did 
itself  honour.  President  Wing  made  a  welcoming  speech. 
Crowds  filled  the  campus,  standing;  the  steps  and  windows 
of  the  surrounding  buildings  were  thick  with  interested 
people.  But  the  event  of  the  day  was  to  come  in  the  evening; 
with  all  its  varied  interests  the  afternoon  was  only  prelimi- 
nary. 

"Are  you  having  a  good  time,  Sandy?  It's  a  shame  I 
haven't  a  minute  to  give  you." 

"A  beautiful  time,  dear.  Your  Professor  Chilton  has  been 
with  me  all  the  afternoon — a  most  stimulating  companion." 

Mary  gave  her  friend  an  appraising  glance.  Both  were 
dressing  for  the  evening. 

"Sandy,  remember  the  evening  of  the  Fenns'  dinner? 
When  you  walked  away  with  the  Englishman  and  the  Ameri- 
can, and  left  me  stranded  with  the  Hottentot  and  the  Zulu  ? 
You  were  wearing  that  dovelike  gray  crepe — and  I  a  crazy 
concoction  of  brilliant  colours.  Before  the  evening  was  over 
I  came  to  feel  like  an  Indian  squaw  beside  a  Caucasian  lady  of 
quality." 

Alexandra  laughed.  "Maty — how  often  have  I  heard  you 
say  that  restraint  is  the  first  law  of  expression." 

"So  I've  come  to  believe,  in  dress  as  well  as  in  speech. 
Well,  behold  then  what  I'm  wearing  to-night.  I've  taken 
a  leaf  out  of  your  book.  And  the  odd  thing  is  that  I've  never 


BLUE  AND  PURPLE  329 

felt  more  brilliantly  costumed  than  I  did  when  I  tried  these 
things  all  on." 

Over  her  white  shoulders  slipped  a  frock  of  pale  gray, 
mistily  thin  and  sheer,  Parisian  to  the  last  line.  From  a  big 
bandbox  she  took  a  wide  flat  little  hat  of  the  same  gray,  whose 
only  decoration  was  a  band  of  gray  willow,  ready  to  flutter  to 
a  breath  of  wind.  Smiling  at  Alexandra  she  set  the  hat  upon 
her  head,  held  out  both  arms,  model-wise,  and  turned  slowly 
about. 

"It's  quite  perfect,  dear.  I  never  saw  you  lotfk  so  lovely. 
To  use  the  present-day  phrase — you're  stunning!  And  with 
all  your  splendid  colour  you  don't  need  a  touch  of  colour  in 
your  frock." 

Mary  put  an  eager  question.  "Is  it  silly  and  frivolous  of 
me,  at  the  very  most  thrilling  hour  of  our  whole  campaign, 
to  be  thinking  so  much  of  how  I  look?  Much  depends  on  me 
to-night,  you  know.  Somehow  I  wanted  to  appeal  in  looks, 
if  I  could,  to  all  those  critical  eyes.  I  suppose  it's  the  old 
story  of  the  feminine  reliance  upon  personal  charm,  and  yet 
• — one  needn't  be  a  frump  just  to  prove  one's  sincerity  and 
reliability,  need  one  ? " 

"One  certainly  needn't.  Why  shouldn't  you  delight  our 
eyes  as  you've  done  all  day?  One  who's  accomplished  what 
you  have,  all  summer,  has  surely  proved  both  her  sincerity 
and  her  reliability." 

"I  hope  so.  I  just  didn't  want  to  seem  to  you  quite  the 
old  Mary,  always  setting  the  stage  for  her  own  performance. 
You  know,  Sandy," — and  now  Mary's  face  grew  sober  with  a 
look  new  to  Alexandra  until  this  day,  when  she  had  observed 
it  many  times — the  peculiar  look  of  one  who  is  absorbed  in 
something  quite  outside  and  beyond  herself — "I've  been 
living  with  some  very  wonderful  people,  these  last  six  months. 
Every  one  of  them,  each  in  his  or  her  way,  has  done  some- 
thing to  me.  My  doctor  and  my  nurse  began  it — Dr.  Christo- 


33o  FOURSQUARE 

pher  Reade  and  Rose  O*Grady  are — oh,  so  tremendously  real 
and  splendid.  One  can't  be  with  them  and  not  learn  to 
despise  all  kinds  of  affectations  and  poses.  It's  like  carrying 
a  painted  face  out  into  the  sunshine  to  try  to  deceive  or  mis- 
lead them — it  simply  can't  be  done." 

"Mary!  I  knew  you'd  grown,  my  dear — but  I  didn't 
know  how  much.  This  one  thing  you're  saying  would  show 
me,  if  I  hadn't  been  watching  you  all  day. — And  how  about 
the  other  people " 

"Guy  Carter — his  genius — his  insight — yes,  that  boy  has 
remarkable  insight  into  human  nature — he  gets  down  to  the 
very  springs  of  human  action,  young  as  he  is.  One  can't  de- 
ceive him,  either — or  want  to.  As  for  Mark  Fenn," — Mary 
paused,  closing  her  two  hands  into  fists  and  then  bringing 
them  up  before  her  with  the  gesture  which  a  speaker  uses 
when  he  wishes  to  denote  force — "he's  been — like  a  rock — a 
wall — a  tower " 

She  broke  off,  drawing  a  quick,  deep  breath,  and  smiling. 

"I  must  go.  There  never  was  a  day  so  full.  Bless  you  for 
seeing  to  so  many  people  for  me — I  don't  know  what  I'd  have 
done  without  you.  Oh,  if  the  evening  only  goes  as  I  want  it 
to  I'll  be  gloriously  happy!  If  it  does — I  think  I'll  almost  be 
content  never  to  write  another  word." 

Alexandra  smiled.     "Mary!    What  a  statement!" 

Mary  turned  at  the  door,  looking  back  at  her  friend. 

"Which,  being  interpreted,"  she  said,  her  face  lifted,  her 
eyes  starry,  "means  that  I'll  want  to  write  a  hundred  thou- 
sand words  and  make  them  bigger,  truer,  surer  than  anything 
I've  ever  dreamed  of.  *  Else  wherefore  born?"1 


CHAPTER  XX 
THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD 


HE  violins !  There  seemed  a  hundred 
of  them  crying  softly  in  the  night,  as 
the  curtains  rose  on  those  deep  blues 
and  purples  of  the  long  draperies, 
darkened  to  all  but  obscurity.  The 
thousand  lights  upon  the  campus  and 
about  the  amphitheatre  had  faded, 
one  by  one,  till  all  were  gone.  Little 
by  little  the  scene  upon  the  great 
stage  had  become  dimly  visible — a 
marvellous  effect  of  darkness  and 
mystery.  Throughout  the  opening 
overture  nothing  changed  or  moved 
—the  story  was  told  by  the  music 
alone. 

In  the  wings  Guy  Carter,  leaning 
toward  the  front,  beat  the  measures 
with  an  invisible  baton.  If  he  could 
have  been  his  own  conductor  he  would 
have  been  more  content.  As  it  was, 
a  hundred  rehearsals  couldn't  have 
satisfied  him.  The  orchestra  Mary 
had  procured  for  him  was  one  of  high 
quality,  the  conductor  a  man  of  ex- 
perience. But  Guy  was  ablaze  with 
excitement  and  anxiety;  from  the 
first  moment,  if  a  tempo  lagged  or 


332  FOURSQUARE 

quickened  with  the  variation  of  a  half-beat  from  his  intent, 
he  was  ready  to  tear  his  fair  hair  and  cry  out  a  command.  If 
after  that  first  subdued  singing  murmur  of  the  violins  their 
volume  increased  too  fast,  he  was  wild  with  distress.  Rose 
CXGrady  standing  behind  him,  laid  a  steadying  hand  upon 
his  shoulder. 

"It's  opening  well,  sonny — it's  wonderful  and  beautiful," 
she  whispered,  at  one  crisis.  "It's  just  overkeyed  you  are — . 
let  down !  You've  got  a  lot  before  you." 

"I  can't!" 

Mary  Fletcher  was  also  listening  from  the  wings.  She 
could  see  the  audience — a  dim  gray  sea,  the  faces  indis- 
tinguishable. She  knew  where  her  guests  sat — seven  rows 
from  the  front  and  in  the  middle.  She  had  seen  Mark  take 
his  place,  alone  in  the  last  seat  at  the  extreme  edge  of  the  fifth 
row.  Her  heart  was  beating  hard. 

Mark  had  had  no  preconceived  idea  as  to  what  he  was  to 
see  and  hear.  On  his  brief  returns  to  Newcomb,  throughout 
the  long  summer  of  travel  and  speeches  and  personal  inter- 
views, he  had  now  and  again  inquired  of  Mary  what  it  was  all 
to  be  about,  but  he  had  received  no  definite  information.  He 
hadn't  been  invited  to  any  rehearsals,  nor  had  he  been  con- 
sulted in  any  way.  In  the  beginning  Mary  had  put  a  ques- 
tion: 

"Can  you  trust  us  to  do  the  right  thing,  Mark?  Are  you 
willing  to  leave  it  all  in  our  hands?" 

"To  the  last  detail,"  he  had  answered.  And  he  had  di- 
vined, at  length,  that  she  preferred  not  to  have  him  know  even 
the  general  plan  of  it.  So  be  it — for  he  did  trust  her.  Now, 
however,  as  he  had  watched  the  great  audience  assemble,  and 
had  taken  his  own  place,  he  was  conscious  of  a  sense  not  only 
of  anticipation  but  of  anxiety.  After  all,  it  was  his  ground, 
his  college,  his  partially  completed  building,  transformed  into 
this  impressive  stage  and  background.  Among  the  audience 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD  333 

were  many  whose  critical  intelligence  was  trained  and  keen; 
he  noted  here  and  there  men  and  women  whose  opinion  was 
important;  in  a  word,  as  he  waited  it  began  to  seem  to  him 
that  Newcomb's  whole  future  was  in  the  balance,  that  it  was 
to  be  judged  by  the  quality  of  this  performance.  And  it  was 
all  in  the  hands  of  Mary  Fletcher  and  Guy  Carter,  unques- 
tionably two  clever  young  people  who  might — or  might  not — 
have  had  the  vision  needed  for  this  hour  of  judgment — for 
that  was  what  it  now  seemed  to  him.  With  all  his  honest 
confidence  in  Mary,  had  he  been  quite  safe  in  trusting  her 
wren  so  heavy  a  responsibility  ?  Wouldn't  he  have  been  wiser, 
perhaps,  to  have  exercised  his  undoubted  right  of  censorship  ? 

He  thought  of  her  as  he  had  last  seen  her — he  had  caught 
a  glimpse  of  her  in  the  attractive  gray  apparel  of  the  evening 
as  she  came  out  of  her  house  with  her  guests.  She  had  looked 
so  young  and  for  the  moment  so  little  like  one  upon  whose 
shoulders  rested  the  burden  of  the  coming  test  of  power: 
was  she  really  equal  to  it?  With  all  her  gifts — and  he  re- 
called with  a  stirring  of  the  h»art  her  talk  to  the  boys  at 
Stevenson;  remembered  the  fine  tone  of  the  letters  and 
articles  she  had  sent  out  during  the  whole  campaign — still, 
with  all  these  to  witness  her  ability,  could  she  possibly  have 
conceived  and  executed  the  dramatic  offering  worthy  those 
tall,  wreathed  pillars,  those  impressive  blue-and-purple  drap- 
eries, this  whole  atmosphere  of  poetic  beauty  and  challenge 
to  high  imagination? 

He  was  indignant  at  himself  for  even  the  shadow  of  a 
doubt  of  her.  Yet  when  he  remembered  her  collaborator — a 
mere  boy,  whose  only  previous  test  had  been  that  of  a  success- 
ful war-time  musical  comedy,  expert  and  excellent  work 
though  it  had  been — could  Mary  really  have  been  able  to 
make  him  rise  high  enough  for  this  supreme  effort?  As  the 
curtain  slowly  rose  and  the  lights  darkened,  Mark  had  to 
fold  his  arms  tightly  across  his  breast  and  let  his  hands  grip 


334  FOURSQUARE 

the  muscles  of  those  arms,  to  keep  down  his  rising  fear  that 
somehow,  somewhere,  so  crucial  a  submitting  to  the  verdict 
of  the  educated  public  might  fall  short.  He  well  knew  that 
it  might  as  well  fall  short  by  a  wide  space  as  a  narrow  one; 
there  could  be  no  real  approval  of  anything  that  was  not  fully 
fit. 

The  opening  overture  was  unquestionably  reassuring. 
In  the  soft  gloom,  only  a  faint  light  showing  a  stage  which 
recalled  the  best  of  Grecian  art,  the  music  of  the  orchestra 
fulfilled  and  satisfied  that  first  demand  for  harmony  and 
prophetic  suggestion  which  prepares  an  audience  for  that 
which  is  to  come.  Mark  felt  his  pulses  quiet  a  little  under 
the  inducement  of  what  seemed  to  him  a  dignified  and  worthy 
inaugural.  He  thought  he  recognized  in  it  the  influence  of 
Mary's  effort  to  inoculate  Guy's  methods  with  the  germ  of  the 
best  in  musical  accomplishment.  Certainly  there  was  no 
trace  of  commonplaceness  in  this  opening,  to  which  the  audi- 
ence was  listening  in  that  complete  hush  which  speaks  of 
interest  already  captured.  There  is  no  audience  so  courteous 
that  it  can  wholly  simulate  this  attitude. 

But  now  the  play  opened. 

As  he  began  to  recognize  the  theme  of  it  Mark  also  began 
to  be  astonished.  How  had  she  chosen  such  a  theme  as 
this?  And  yet — how  not? — considering  the  blood  which 
flowed  in  her  veins.  Had  ever  such  a  central  figure  been 
made  the  subject  of  a  drama?  It  was  the  figure  of  him  who 
throughout  the  years  has  played  one  of  the  most  significant 
roles  in  life,  yet  perhaps  of  all  the  least  appreciated.  The 
teacher! 

In  the  opening  act  the  first  scene  showed  the  child — the 
second  the  youth — the  third  the  young  collegian.  In  each 
scene  his  teacher  was  beside  him,  showing  him  the  way.  And 
in  each  scene  his  teacher  was  also  his  friend — his  under- 
standing,  inspiring  friend.  This  was  the  whole  first  act. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD  335 

The  actors  in  it  were  few  and  well  chosen — simplicity  in  word 
and  action  was  its  keynote — the  attendant  music  having  the 
same  character  in  motif  and  development.  Here  and  there 
touches  of  humour  in  the  bright  dialogue  kept  the  audience 
smiling,  yet  when  the  curtain  fell  it  was  to  leave  an  impres- 
sion of  quiet  power — the  power  of  one  life  upon  another  from 
the  very  first  days  of  education. 

The  second  act  was  of  a  different  complexion.  Life,  its 
storm  and  struggle,  was  at  hand — the  whole  aspect  of  things 
had  altered;  no  longer  was  the  teacher  at  his  pupil's  side. 
But  his  teaching  remained — his  influence  persisted.  And 
another  teacher  had  arisen — human  friendship — the  friend- 
ship of  one  who  had  himself  been  taught.  As  the  act  mounted 
to  its  climax  it  grew  more  and  more  noble  in  its  conception, 
and  with  its  closing  scene  a  song  came  ringing  through  the 
still  air  which  seemed  to  Mark  to  fall  at  his  very  feet. 

Months  earlier  he  had  given  to  Mary  Fletcher  a  book 
known  and  beloved  of  many  who  had  found  in  it  much 
beauty  and  wisdom,  written  almost  a  quarter  of  a  century 
before  by  one  in  his  youth,  yet  who  had  even  then  shown  the 
marks  of  that  genius  which  afterward  made  him  one  of  the 
first  of  the  preachers  and  teachers  of  the  world.  Mark  had 
underlined  certain  words  which  to  him  had  taken  on  a  per- 
sonal meaning.  Mary  had  thanked  him  for  his  gift,  but  had 
never  afterward  alluded  to  it.  Fearing  that  the  message  of 
that  marked  paragraph  had  been  one  with  which  she  could 
not  sympathize,  he  also  had  been  silent.  And  now — here 
was  this  song!  What  could  it  be  but  the  answer  to  that 
message? 

This  was  the  paragraph  he  had  marked: 

But  whatever  be  the  method  by  which  a  true  friendship  is  formed, 
whether  the  growth  of  time  or  the  birth  of  sudden  sympathy,  there 
seems,  on  looking  back,  to  have  been  an  element  of  necessity.  It 
is  a  sort  of  predestined  spiritual  relationship.  We  speak  of  a  man 


336  FOURSQUARE 

meeting  his  fate,  and  we  speak  truly.  When  we  look  back  we  see  it 
to  have  been  like  destiny;  life  converged  to  life,  and  there  was  no 
getting  out  of  it,  even  if  we  wished  it.  It  was  not  that  we  made  a 
choice,  but  that  the  choice  made  us.  If  it  has  come  gradually,  we 
waken  to  the  force  which  has  been  in  our  lives,  and  has  come  into 
them  never  hasting  but  never  resting,  till  now  we  know  it  to  be  an 
eternal  possession.  Or,  as  we  are  going  about  other  business,  never 
dreaming  of  the  thing  which  occurs,  the  unexpected  happens:  on  the 
road  a  light  shines  on  us,  and  life  is  never  the  same  again. 

And  this  was  the  song  which,  in  a  clear,  bell-like  con- 
tralto, every  syllable  so  distinct  that  he  could  not  miss  a  word, 
came  across  the  space  to  Mark  Fenn  and  dropped  like  a  divine 
gift  of  gratitude  and  love  into  his  heart.  For  such  he  knew — 
and  knew  not  how  he  knew — it  was.  Somehow  it  wasn't 
possible  to  doubt  that  no  matter  who  sang  it,  or  who  wrote 
the  fitting  music  for  it,  it  came  straight  from  Mary  Fletcher 
to  Mark  Fenn.  It  was  for  this  moment  that  she  had  kept 
it  all  a  secret  from  him — blessed  secret  that  was  between 
them,  though  proclaimed  in  a  thousand  ears! 

A  heavenly  mystery  has  come  to  me, 
Where  once  my  eyes  were  held  they  now  can  see. 
I  do  not  know,  indeed,  just  how  it  came, 
Or  how  to  speak  of  it,  or  guess  its  name. 
It  did  not  creep  upon  me  unawares, 
Or  come  in  answer  to  beseeching  prayers; 
But  as  I  walked  along  life's  rugged  road, 
My  shoulders  bent  beneath  a  heavy  load, 
The  song  upon  my  weary  lips  grown  still, 
My  only  hope  to  keep  a  steadfast  will — 
What  sudden  shone  upon  my  blinded  sight? 
— I  only  know — "Upon  the  Road  a  Light!" 

And  now  life  never  can  be  quite  the  same. 
A  purpose  new  is  mine,  a  higher  aim. 
My  heart  is  freer  far,  my  pulse  more  strong; 
The  way  is  easier,  and  not  half  so  long. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD  337 

The  song  is  sweet  upon  my  lips  again, 

I  sing  and  sing  a  blessed  new  refrain. 

The  road  may  wind  and  climb — I  upward  leap, 

No  path  too  stony,  and  no  height  too  steep. 

My  friend  keeps  pace  with  me;  I  hear  his  voice; 

I  feel  his  faith;  he  makes  my  soul  rejoice. 

All  things  are  changed  since  shines  this  vision  bright, 
Undimmed,  unchanging — "On  the  Road  a  Light!" 

With  the  ending  of  the  song  and  the  fall  of  the  curtain  Mark 
left  his  place;  he  couldn't  sit  there  and  exchange  comments 
with  those  nearest  him.  As  he  went  he  heard  the  warm 
applause,  continued  to  the  furthermost  limit  of  friendly  cus- 
tom with  its  recall  of  actors  and  musicians.  He  caught  the 
looks  on  faces,  recognized  that  people  were  saying  kind,  de- 
lighted words  on  every  hand;  heard  one  man  on  the  outskirts 
whom  he  knew  to  be  a  critic  of  considerable  distinction  ob- 
serve in  a  tone  of  characteristically  grudging  admission,  "For 
this  sort  of  thing  it's  rather  remarkably  well  done,  you  know." 
Mark  understood  that  from  him  even  such  modified  com- 
mendation was  worth  considerably  more  than  any  ordinary 
ecstatic  praise. 

He  made  his  way  round  to  the  "stage  entrance" — in  this 
case  an  unfinished  doorway  at  the  back  of  the  building 
reached  by  a  wide  plank.  Following  one  clue  after  another 
he  at  length  found  Mary.  He  put  a  low-voiced  question. 

"Would  it  be  possible  for  you  to  come  around  and  see  the 
last  act  from  the  front,  somewhere,  with  me?" 

Her  eyes  met  his,  in  the  dim  light  of  the  "wings." 
"I'm  afraid  I  can't  be  spared.     I'm  truly  sorry." 
"Then — may  I  stay  here  with  you?" 
"You'll  miss  our  most  glorified  effect,  if  you  do." 
"I  don't  mind.     I  can  see  a  good  deal  from  here,  I'm  sure. 
And  hear  it  all. — Mary — please  let  me  stay.     And  when  you 
can,  come  here  with  me?" 


338  FOURSQUARE 

She  nodded.  "If  you  really  prefer."  Then  she  was  off,  at 
the  appeal  of  an  anxious  young  actor. 

He  saw  what  she  was  doing.  She  was  holding  them  all 
together,  these  amateurs  who  were  trying  their  best  to  put 
into  hers  and  Guy  Carter's  work  the  thing  asked  of  them — an 
all  but  professional  interpreting  of  the  spirit  of  the  whole. 
Perry  Gilfillan  was  behind  the  scenes,  he  who  had  studied  and 
worked  for  many  years  at  just  this  sort  of  presentation,  so 
that  he  had  made  a  name  for  himself  and  his  presence  was 
invaluable.  Yet  it  was  Mary  to  whom  all  looked  for  that 
last  word  before  they  made  an  entrance,  for  her  criticism 
or  her  approbation;  it  was  she  who  kept  things  tight  and  yet 
not  on  over  tension.  She,  more  than  Gilfillan  himself,  was 
responsible  for  the  fine  restraint  noticeable  throughout  all 
speech  and  action — the  very  mark  of  quality,  even  in  the 
portrayal  of  passion.  Not  a  turn  of  head,  not  a  lift  of  arm, 
but  she  had  worked  it  out  for  herself,  according  to  what 
Gilfillan  himself  had  admitted  to  be  a  rather  marvellous 
dramatic  instinct. 

He  came  upon  Mark  in  the  wings,  just  before  the  final 
curtain  rose,  and  poured  out  upon  him  the  enthusiasm  roused 
in  him  by  Mary's  coaching  and  by  her  efficiency  behind  the 
scenes,  as  well  as  by  the  performance  itself.  Mark  wasn't 
eager  to  talk  to  anybody,  but  he  found  himself  listening 
willingly  to  the  expert's  judgment. 

"She's  simply  the  whole  thing,"  Gilfillan  said,  with  a  nod 
of  his  bushy  head  toward  a  stage  entrance  where  Mary  stood 
with  her  hand  upon  the  shoulder  of  a  slim  young  figure  in  the 
costume  of  a  page.  "On  my  word,  while  Carter's  supposed 
to  be  the  composer  of  the  musical  setting  for  her  text,  I'm 
inclined  to  think  it's  a  case  of  pure  evocation.  She's  worked 
through  his  brain — she's  made  him  capable  of  something  be- 
yond and  above  him.  The  boy  worships  her,  of  course — who 
wouldn't?  All  of  us  are  at  her  feet.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD  339 

never  was  much  impressed  by  her  popularity  as  a  writer; 
her  stuff  usually  struck  me  as  the  sparkling,  glittering,  no- 
count  sort  not  worth  a  man's  serious  consideration.  It  didn't 
interest  me.  But  I  tell  you  this  is  a  different  brand — it's  the 
real  thing.  Faulty,  of  course,  here  and  there — but  the 
conception  is,  to  me,  very  fine  indeed,  and  worthy  of  a 
mature  mind.  You  can't  say  she  hasn't  done  a  big  thing  for 
the  cause  of  education  in  this  presentation  of  the  teacher  as  a 
figure  of  heroic  size.  And  he  deserves  it — he  deserves  it. 
But  it's  taken  this  brilliant  young  woman,  with  the  person- 
ality to  attract  the  best  of  any  class  and  the  genius  to  exploit 
it,  to  throw  herself  heart  and  soul  into  the  glorification  of  the 
humble  teacher — like  yourself  and  myself.  See  here — you 
must  be  appreciating  this  thing.  I'm  not  at  all  sure  you 
didn't  inspire  it!" 

Mark  shook  his  head.  "It  comes  of  a  life-long  association 
with  the  teaching  world.  You  knew  her  father?" 

"I  didn't — but  his  name  is  one  of  the  high  lights  in  the 
history  of  the  great  private  schools,  of  course. — The  curtain's 
going  up.  You  should  be  in  front,  Fenn.  Don't  miss  this." 

Gilfillan  hastened  away.  Mark  found  himself  a  corner 
just  behind  the  prompter  where  he  could  see  as  much  of  the 
stage  as  might  be  covered  from  the  wings.  He  looked  and 
listened  with  considerable  abstraction  to  the  short  last  act. 
His  mind  and  heart  were  occupied  with  just  one  thing — On. 
the  Road  a  Light! 

Mary  came  to  him  once  and  remained  a  possible  five 
minutes.  Together  they  watched  a  most  appealing  scene 
upon  the  stage  representing  the  reunion  of  a  group  of  mature 
men  and  women  with  a  former  beloved  teacher,  himself  a 
bowed  but  still  vigorous  old  man.  The  dialogue  was  at  once 
humorous  and  tender,  and  so  convincingly  human  that  it 
brought  a  choke  into  the  throat  in  the  very  midst  of  the 
laughter.  The  music  which  accompanied  the  scene  was  that 


34o  FOURSQUARE 

of  which  Mary  was  surest,  and  into  which  she  had  led  Guy  to 
put  his  best  work. 

As  the  act  drew  to  a  close  Mary  whispered:  "I'm  going 
with  you  in  just  a  minute  to  the  back  of  the  audience.  I 
want  you  to  see  the  final  effect  from  there."  She  slipped 
away,  but  returned,  and  Mark  followed  her  as  she  led  the  way 
out  and  around  the  edges  of  the  audience  to  a  position  where, 
standing,  they  could  see  plainly  over  the  heads  of  everyone. 
The  curtain  had  fallen,  but  it  now  rose  again. 

A  large  group  of  people  in  the  costumes  of  Orientals  sat  and 
stood  about  a  central  figure,  one  familiar  to  all  students  of 
religious  art.  A  veil  had  been  dropped  between  audience 
and  stage,  so  that  no  face  was  distinct,  but  the  effect  was  that 
of  a  great  painting,  dimmed  with  age,  the  colourings  softly 
blending.  As  the  audience  gazed  in  silence  a  light  slowly 
began  to  show,  seeming  to  emanate  from  that  central  figure, 
which  towered  above  the  rest,  in  the  attitude  of  Him  who 
who  speaks  with  authority  and  yet  with  gentleness.  The 
picture  grew  in  loveliness  and  meaning  as  the  central  light 
increased,  and  the  rest  of  the  scene  grew  slowly  dim.  No 
eyes,  however  prejudiced,  could  deny  the  beauty  of  the 
spiritual  suggestion,  nor  its  power.  No  words  were  needed 
to  name  that  scene.  "The  Great  Teacher"  it  set  forth, 
no  other. 

If  Mark  had  been  touched  and  roused  before,  he  was  now 
so  deeply  moved  that  speech  would  have  been  at  the  moment 
beyond  him.  What  a  thing  it  was  to  have  done — this  was  his 
overwhelming  thought — what  a  chance  to  have  seen  and 
seized!  To  carry  the  theme  of  the  play,  with  all  its  human 
appeal,  on  to  the  Divine — to  have  dared  to  try  to  lift  it  even 
*  to  the  Heaven's  heights  far  and  steep ' — this  had  been  a 
conception  approaching  the  sublime.  To  begin  with  simplic- 
ity and  laughter;  to  catch  all  hearts  with  a  hundred  human 
touches  even  while  the  theme  grew  graver;  then,  at  last,  to 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD  341 

bring  to  it  even  the  light  which  shines  from  another  world — 
this  was  art  at  its  best.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  Mark  more 
than  art;  it  was  inspiration  itself — the  fire  of  an  imagination 
so  near  to  genius  that  one  must  look  upon  it  with  reverence. 

Now,  as  the  vision  held,  a  chorus  began,  singing  in  the  dis- 
tance, gradually  swelling,  like  some  great  processional.  It 
was  the  whole  student  body,  marching  two  by  two,  clad  in 
white  cassocks  and  cottas,  like  a  choir.  The  lines  wound  out 
upon  the  stage,  gradually  hiding  from  view  the  scene  behind 
them,  and  the  music  of  the  song  was — Mark  recognized  it 
with  a  thrill  of  remembrance — that  of  the  Beethoven  Choral 
from  the  Ninth  Symphony,  the  Hymn  to  Joy. 

The  curtain  fell.  The  applause  broke  out,  and  swelled  to 
an  acclaim  which  would  not  be  denied.  The  call  for  the 
author  and  composer  of  the  play  arose,  and  Mark  hurried 
back  with  Mary,  no  word  spoken  between  them.  Then  Mary 
and  Guy  came  out  before  the  curtain,  a  pair  whose  appear- 
ance made  the  tumult  break  out  again.  Guy  upon  his 
crutches  and  in  his  uniform — Mary  had  insisted  upon  this,  de- 
claring that  the  one  would  explain  the  other,  without  need 
of  words — Mary  herself  a  figure  of  shining  appeal,  stood  and 
waited  for  a  long  minute.  Guy's  head  was  bent,  Mary's 
smiling  face  turned  toward  him,  as  if  she  would  have  the 
honours  go  all  to  him,  who  had  so  little  else  to  make  him 
happy.  Then  Mary  spoke. 

"We  want  you  to  know,"  she  said — and  the  thrilling  caden- 
ces of  her  voice  carried  to  the  last  row  of  the  audience,  though 
she  seemed  not  to  be  lifting  it  unduly — "that  we  are  very,  very 
proud  and  content,  not  so  much  to  have  pleased  you — though 
that  makes  us  happy  indeed — as  because  we  feel  that  our 
theme  has  been  one  with  which  it  has  been  not  only  a  joy  but 
a  mighty  privilege  to  work.  In  our  hearts,  as  we  tried  to 
build  the  tale,  was  the  inspiration  of  a  memory  beloved  in  the 
history  of  Newcomb — that  of  a  man  who  gave  all  that  he  was 


342  FOURSQUARE 

and  had  to  her  upbuilding.  If,  in  our  small  way,  we  may 
have  brought  one  more  leaf  to  add  to  the  laurels  which  rest 
richly  upon  the  mention  of  his  name,  we  have  accomplished 
our  purpose.  And  if  you,  who  have  listened  with  such  gener- 
ous approval,  would  join  us  in  our  effort  to  pay  to  the  mem- 
ory of  David  Matthew  Fenn  something  of  the  great  debt  we 

owe  him  here  at  Newcomb,  won't  you " 

And  she  lifted  both  arms  with  a  gesture  at  once  command- 
ing and  beseeching.  The  audience  rose  to  its  feet  with  that 
instant  unanimity  of  response  which  gives  its  full  consent. 
The  moment  was  one  of  real  emotion,  long  to  be  remembered. 

The  affair  broke  up,  people  crowded  upon  the  stage  to 
speak  with  sons  and  daughters.  Rose  and  Alexandra  piloted 
Mary's  special  guests  back  to  the  house,  the  party  supple- 
mented by  the  members  of  the  faculty  and  their  wives. 
Torch-lights  and  lanterns  here  and  there  about  the  garden 
made  an  effective  scene  of  it.  There  was  soft  music  some- 
where on  the  grounds. 

As  hostess,  every  moment  of  Mary's  was  taken  care  of. 
She  turned  from  one  to  another  who  claimed  her  attention, 
and  had  no  time  to  spare  for  the  one  person  who  was  in  all  her 
thoughts.  But  she  observed  that  he  was  never  far  away,  and 
every  now  and  then  she  caught  his  look  across  the  space  be- 
tween them — a  look  which  said:  "Something  has  hap- 
pened!" Her  heart  beat  high.  She  had  a  strange  sense  of 
an  invisible  bond  tying  her  to  this  man.  She  divined  that  he 
must  be  feeling  it  as  she  did.  She  had  made  her  confession 
and  her  vows  of  friendship  to  him  in  that  song,  wittingly  and 
willingly.  She  hadn't  known  till  she  had  heard  it  go  to  him 
from  the  singer's  lips  how  full  a  confession  or  how  great  a  vow 
it  was.  Not  until  she  had  seen  his  face,  as  he  came  to  her  be- 
hind the  scenes,  had  she  fully  understood  that  to  him  it  had 
meant  everything.  If  she  had  admitted  that  to  her  his 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD  343 

friendship  was  all  that  the  song  declared,  then  there  could  be 
but  one  conclusion.  Friendship  of  that  degree,  with  no  bar- 
rier to  prevent,  must  as  inevitably  become  love  as  the  tide 
rolling  up  the  beach  must  reach  its  high-water  mark.  Though 
hardly  a  word  passed  between  the  two  it  was  a  great  and 
memorable  hour. 

Soon  after  the  return  to  the  house  John  Kirkwood  managed 
somehow  to  bring  about  a  brief  interview  with  Mary.  More 
than  once  during  the  day  he  had  tried  his  best  to  see  her  alone, 
but  her  guests  were  too  many,  the  demands  upon  her  time  too 
frequent.  Now,  however,  he  deliberately  led  her  away  from 
the  house  down  across  the  lawn  toward  the  garden. 

"You  must  give  me  ten  minutes,"  he  had  whispered. 
"You  owe  me  that  much." 

"Of  course.     I'm  so  sorry " 

"No,  you're  not.  You  haven't  wanted  to  see  me  alone.  I 
understand  that.  ...  At  least  you  don't  mind  my  tell- 
ing you  what  you  already  know:  you've  done  a  big  thing 
to-night." 

"I  didn't  do  it  alone." 

He  gave  her  a  comprehending  glance.  "I  know  you 
didn't,"  he  said,  with  a  bitterness  of  inflection  he  couldn't 
keep  out  of  his  tone,  and  he  smothered  a  hard  breath.  "So 
your  life  is  dedicated  to  Newcomb  College.  May  I  offer  my 
felicitations?" 

Mary  looked  at  him  quickly,  saw  the  pain  in  his  eyes,  and 
was  gentler  with  him  than  at  the  first  sound  of  his  words  she 
had  had  a  mind  to  be. 

"I  can't  just  understand  how  you  came  to  say  that. 
Surely  you  haven't  had  any  evidence  of  my  dedica- 
tion?" 

"I  wish  I  hadn't.  But  it's  written  all  over  you — for  my 
eyes,  at  least.  You  must  remember  that  I've  had  unusual 
advantages  for  acquiring  the  ability  to  read  you.  Just 


344  FOURSQUARE 

now — you're  a  peculiarly  open  book,  my  dear — to  me,  at 
least!" 

Mary  was  flushing;  she  turned  her  head  away  in  silence. 
What  use  to  deny  the  truth?  She  understood  the  disap- 
pointment behind  his  words  and  forgave  him. 

"I  suppose  I'm  rather  brutal.  But  I  imagine  you  read  me 
quite  as  clearly  as  I  read  you,  so  you  can't  hold  it  against  me. 
I  came  here  to  see  if  there  remained  a  ghost  of  a  chance  for  me 
— I  found  there  wasn't.  If  I  take  it  hard  you  needn't  blame 
yourself — you've  been  perfectly  fair.  But  that  hasn't  pre- 
vented your  drawing  me.  It's  all  happened  since  I  saw  you 
up  here  last  June.  Before  that  you  were  just  a  talented 
and  very  charming  girl  to  whom  I  was  devoted.  Since 
then  you've  become — do  you  care  to  hear  it? — the  woman 
I  want.  That  I  know  I  can't  have  you  doesn't  help  it  any — 
naturally." 

She  looked  at  him  now,  clear-eyed.  "John  Kirkwood," 
she  said,  "  I'm  not  the  woman  you  want.  It's  a  very  different 
sort  of  woman  you  want." 

He  spoke  quickly  with  a  frown.  "Don't  tell  me — what 
you're  going  to.  I  haven't  the  least  inclination — nor 
thought ' 

She  was  silent,  checked — not  in  what  she  had  been  about 
to  say,  which  was  not  what  he  had  surmised — but  in  the 
effort  to  put  what  had  seemed  must  appeal  to  him.  After  a 
moment  he  spoke  again. 

"I  shall  go  on  now — as  I  was.  Back  in  the  office,  in  the 
old  grind,  with  the  old  methods.  I  ought  to  be  content, 
since  I  have  everything  my  own  way.  Have  it — that  is — 
in  everything  except  this  one  thing  that  matters  most." 

"You  don't  want  it  most." 

"Why  should  you  say  that?" 

"Because  I  know.     We  shouldn't  fit,  you  and  I." 

"We  did  fit — wonderfully,  once." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD  345 

She  shook  her  head.  "Not  in  the  ways  that  count  most. 
We  should  fit  less,  now." 

"You  mean — you've  gone  ahead  of  me?"  he  suggested, 
raspingly.  "For  of  course  you  have.  I  admit  it." 

"I  didn't  mean  that — you  know  I  didn't.  And  I  think  you 
know  what  I  do  mean.  Please  say  so  honestly,  John  Kirk- 
wood." 

She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes,  and  his  own  dropped 
before  them.  He  raised  them  again,  after  a  moment.  "Yes, 
I  know,"  he  admitted.  "You've  adopted  a  set  of  ideals  I 
consider  puritanic.  But  that  doesn't  mean  we  couldn't  find 
common  ground.  However — I'm  too  late.  I — wish  you 
well — of  your  college  professor.  By  and  by,  perhaps,  when 
you've  had  time  to  get  tired  of  your  sober  little  town,  you'll 
come  down  to  our  big  one — and  we'll  show  you  around. 
Some  things  may  shock  you " 

He  turned  away,  with  an  attempt  at  a  laugh,  but  she  saw 
that  he  was  really  very  unhappy  and  so  again  quite  forgave 
him.  She  did  this  the  more  readily  as  a  slim  little  figure 
ip  a  coral  crepe  frock  and  a  striking  feathery  wrap  came 
toward  them.  She  had  caught  a  sudden  glimpse  of  his  face 
as  he  saw  Sibley  Langley  approaching  across  the  lantern- 
lighted  turf. 

"I'm  sorry  to  interrupt.  But  Miss  Fenn's  looking  every- 
where for  you,  Miss  Fletcher,  and  I  promised  to  try  to  find 
you.  It's  something  urgent,  I  believe." 

"I'll  go  at  once — thank  you." 

"We'll  go  back  with  you."  Miss  Langley  laid  her  hand  on 
Kirkwood's  arm.  "Come,  John — don't  glower  so.  We'll 
come  back  again  and  try  that  lovely  path  through  the  gar- 
den." 

"Just  a  minute,  Mary "  Kirkwood  all  but  shook  off 

the  detaining  small  hand;  it  couldn't  quite  be  done.  He  took 
a  stride  toward  Mary,  who  was  poised  for  flight.  "I  want 


346  FOURSQUARE 

to  tell  you,"  he  said  distinctly,  "that  the  thing  you  did  to» 
night  was  by  far  the  best  of  its  kind  I've  ever  seen  done 
Your  parables  and  your  mysticism  got  even  me — for  the  hour. 
I  can't  follow  you — but  I  shall  never  forget." 

"Oh,  it  was  beautiful!"  cried  Sibley  Langley.  "We're  so 
glad  we  came,  aren't  we,  John?"  . 

Then  Mary  made  her  escape.  She  was  very  sorry  for  him, 
but  she  knew  that  though  he  might  not  forget,  neither  might 
he  long  remember.  His  was  another  world,  where  remember- 
ing such  exalted  hours  isn't  much  done. 

She  found  Harriet  in  the  house,  looking  everywhere.  At 
the  sight  of  her  Harriet's  relief  expressed  itself  in  an  excited 
whisper. 

"Oh,  I  was  so  afraid  I  wouldn't  find  you  in  time.  Mark 
has  to  go  away  again  in  a  hurry.  He  wants  to  see  you.  Run 
over  to  our  house  with  me,  will  you?" 

"Go  away  again!" 

Startled,  Mary  excused  herself  to  the  people  who  would 
have  claimed  her.  On  the  way  across  the  lawn  Harriet 
made  a  hurried  explanation. 

"There's  a  man  here — a  very  influential  man — a  Mr. 
Lloyd — who's  become  so  interested  in  Newcomb  he's  made  a 
plan  to  acquire  a  big  sum  of  money  for  us — perhaps  even  an 
endowment.  He  knows  an  old,  very  wealthy  philanthropist 
who's  almost  at  the  point  of  death.  He's  looking  for  places 
to  leave  his  riches.  Mr.  Lloyd  has  offered  to  take  Mark  to 
him  and  introduce  him — he's  sure  Mark  can  put  the  case 
better  than  he  or  anybody  can.  Mr.  Lloyd's  leaving  in  half 
an  hour  and  Mark's  agreed  to  go  with  him.  We've  been 
rushing  around  getting  ready.  Mark's  been  having  a  con- 
ference with  the  trustees — they're  still  here.  But  he  told 
me  he  must  see  you  for  just  a  minute." 

They  were  at  the  porch.  Through  the  open  study  windows 
the  heads  of  gray-haired  men  could  be  seen;  their  voices  talk- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD  347 

ing  earnestly  were  audible.  Harriet  led  Mary  past  the  study 
door  and  into  the  small  parlour  opposite,  where  an  old-fash- 
ioned prism-hung  lamp  burned  with  a  goldenly  mellow  glow. 
A  moment  later  Harriet  had  gone,  a  door  had  opened  and 
closed  and  Mark  came  in. 

He  was  tense  with  an  excitement  unlike  anything  she  had 
ever  seen  in  him  before;  it  showed  through  his  evident  effort 
at  repression. 

"Mary,  this  is  the  biggest  chance  Newcomb's  ever  had. 
All  this  last  hour  I've  wanted  to  call  you  over  to  take  a  part 
in  our  plans,  but  somehow  felt  I'd  better  not.  You  know 
our  trustees — grateful  as  they  are  to  you  they'll  want  the 
honour  of  putting  this  thing  over  by  themselves.  You  under- 
stand  " 

"Of  course." 

"I'd  rather  be  hung,  drawn  and  quartered  than  go  off" again 
to-night — to-night  of  all  times  in  the  world.  Yet  as  Lloyd 
puts  it  I  see  no  other  way.  Harriet  told  you?  Anything 
might  happen  to  cut  off  a  life  that  hangs  by  a  thread " 

"I  understand." 

"Of  course  you  do."  Mark  relaxed  a  little,  with  a  breath 
of  relief.  He  stood  looking  down  into  her  uplifted  face  for  an 
instant,  as  if  with  the  need  for  explanation  so  entirely  out  of 
the  way,  he  must  think  how  to  say  the  little  else  he  had  time 
for.  Mary  waited  without  speaking,  knowing  somehow  that 
he  wished  her  to  wait. 

"I  have  to  leave  everything  I  wanted  to  say  to  you  about 
this  wonderful  thing  you've  done.  It  can't  be  said  in  a  hurry 
— I'd  rather  leave  it  than  try  to  say  one  word  of  it.  Only 
this — you  must  know  how  it  all  went  to  my  heart,  Mary. 
Never  in  my  life.  .  .  .  And  your  tribute  to  my  father. 
.  .  ."  He  threw  back  his  head,  with  a  shaken  breath. 
"No,  I  won't  try  to  say  even  that — it  must  wait.  There's 
just  one  thing — I  want  to  leave  with  you " 


348  FOURSQUARE 

He  turned  to  the  high  chimneypiece  behind  him,  and  took 
down  a  small  package  which  had  been  lying  there.  He  put 
it  into  Mary's  hand. 

"This  just  came  home  to-day.  It's  nothing  very  much — 
only  a  bit  of  work  of  mine — but  J  wanted  you  to  have  the 
first  copy.  I  meant  to  show  it  to  you  myself,  but  there's  no 
time.  At  least  I  can  leave  it  with  you.  I  wanted  to  surprise 
you  or  I'd  have  told  you  about  it  long  ago." 

"Why,  Mark!"  Through  the  wrapping  her  fingers  could 
feel  a  small  book. 

"  It's  nothing  at  all — hardly  worthy  of  print.  Yet  I  needed 
it  for  a  purpose — something  for  my  graduating  classes  to  take 
with  them  into  the  world.  .  .  .  Mary,  I  must  go." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  study  door  opened,  a  confusion  of 
voices  sounded  across  the  small  hall.  Somebody  said  loudly: 
"Where's  Fenn?  We  must  be  off  in  five  minutes." 

Mark  was  speaking  hurriedly  again.  "I  may  be  back  in  a 
day  or  two — it  may  be  a  week  or  ten  days.  Meanwhile — I 
want  to  say  this  to  you " 

Harriet  put  her  head  in  at  the  door.  "Mark — I'm  awfully 
sorry  to  interrupt " 

"Yes — I'll  be  there.  .  .  .  Mary" — his  voice  dropped 
to  a  whisper — "the  light  on  the  road  will  go  with  me — all  the 
way!" 

He  grasped  her  hand,  looked  closely  once  more  into  her 
face — a  look  which  Mary  with  a  sudden  letting  go  of  her 
reserves  gave  back  with  full  intent  to  give  and  take  all 
that  there  was  in  this  supreme  moment — such  a  moment  as 
might  never  quite  come  again.  The  disappointment  that  he 
must  go  away,  just  in  this  hour,  was  so  great  that  it  had  shown 
her,  as  nothing  else  had  yet  done,  what  it  all  meant  and  how 
much  she  had  to  give. 

Not  until  she  was  alone  for  the  night  did  Mary  open  the 
small  package  Mark  had  given  her.  She  found  it  to  contain ' 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  ROAD  349 

a  st!m  book  bound  plainly  in  brown  cloth.  Upon  its  back  in 
black  lettering  was  the  unpretentious  title: 

FOURSQUARE 

TALKS  TO  MY  CLASSES, 

BY 
MARK  MATTHEW  FENN. 

Upon  the  fly-leaf  was  the  inscription:  To  Mary  Rand 
Fletcher,  from  her  friend,  M.  M.  Fenn.  The  date  followed. 

The  whole  thing  was  as  simply  done  as  that.  It  was  like 
Mark,  thought  Mary,  to  make  as  little  as  possible  of  his  own 
performance;  not  even  to  adorn  his  inscription  to  herself  with 
a  single  flourish  of  presentation.  She  smiled  down  at  the 
little  book,  realizing  that  she  liked  the  look  of  it  for  its  very 
simplicity.  Then  she  sat  down  to  glance  at  its  contents.  It 
was  very  late — nearly  one  o'clock,  when  she  began  to  read  the 
first  chapter.  At  three  she  had  finished  the  book. 

Now  she  knew  him!  She  hadn't  known  him  before,  she 
had  only  guessed  at  him,  or  so  it  seemed  to  her.  But  now  he 
Stood  before  her  precisely  as  he  was.  "Foursquare" — that 
was  Mark's  very  self.  Did  he  himself  realize  what  he  had  put 
into  the  little  book? 

The  six  "Talks"  were  six  expositions  of  his  own  views  of 
the  responsibilities  entailed  upon  those  who  have  had  the 
chance  to  study  and  the  time  to  think — the  necessity  laid 
upon  them  to  make  their-  lives  of  value.  Somehow  into  a 
hundred  small  pages  he  had  packed  stores  of  straightforward, 
logical,  man-to-man  address  to  the  judgment,  coupled  with  a 
fine  persuasiveness  so  cogent  that  it  could  hardly  fail  to  ap- 
peal to  the  will  of  those  who  read.  The  language  was  clear, 
vigorous  Anglo-Saxon  without  the  slightest  attempt  to  gar- 
nish it  with  scholarly  words  and  phrases.  On  the  face  of  it,  it 
would  have  been  as  intelligible  to  a  workman  with  a  common- 
school  education  as  to  a  college  graduate.  Yet  beneath  its 


3So  FOURSQUARE 

surface  lay  a  depth  of  rich  meaning  which  the  trained  mind 
would  be  sure  to  recognize  and  appreciate — the  touch  of  the 
student  of  life  upon  other  students,  confident  of  understand- 
ing. Altogether  the  little  book  was  one  of  those  virile,  con- 
vincing expressions  of  personal  belief  which  often  have  a  far 
greater  part  in  making  concrete  and  workable  the  opinions 
and  creeds  of  other  minds  and  lives  than  many  bulkier,  more 
ambitious  efforts.  In  a  word,  Mark  Fenn  was  putting  into 
the  hands  of  his  outgoing  classes  a  bright  lamp  whose  clear 
flame  was  of  that  very  "light  upon  the  road"  so  needed  in  a 
world  where  darkness  is  often  rendered  only  the  more  con- 
fused and  impenetrable  by  the  smokily  flaming  torches  of 
those  who  ostensibly  seek  to  make  visible  the  way. 

Still  holding  the  little  book  Mary  went  to  a  bookshelf  and 
took  down  another  thin  volume  of  a  very  different  outward 
character — bound  in  costly  blue  leather — "The  Letters  of 
Arthur  Rand  Fletcher,  Headmaster,  to  an  ex-Schoolboy." 
Different  in  external  dress,  to  be  sure — but  how  like — how  like 
— in  contents!  Each  the  declaration,  the  manifestation,  of  a 
life  fearless  and  forceful,  bent  upon  touching  other  lives  with 
the  touch  which  invigorates  and  sustains,  helps  not  hinders — 
the  all-powerful  human  touch  of  the  brother  and  the  man. 

Mary  laid  the  two  books  together,  cover  by  cover,  plain 
brown  cloth  by  rich  blue  levant,  and  looked  at  them  as  one 
regards  the  greatest  treasures  one  possesses.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  the  minds  and  hearts  of  the  two  men  they  represented 
were  beating  sturdily  in  unison — and  that  the  echo  of  that 
heart-beat  throbbed  in  her  own  happy  breast. 


CHAPTER  XXI 
A  LITTLE  BROWN  BOOK 


ND  may  you  be  interrupted?" 

Rose  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the 
square  room  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
its  windows  opening  on  the  rear  porch, 
in  which  Mary  Fletcher  had  assembled 
all  the  books  she  possessed,  a  goodly 
showing.  They  had  been  reinforced 
by  many  hundreds  from  her  father's 
collection — the  shelves  reaching  to  the 
ceiling  making  an  interesting  back- 
ground for  the  workshop  which  the 
room  had  now  become. 

Mary  did  not  look  up  from  the  type- 
writer before  which  she  sat.  She 
waved  a  protesting  hand  at  the  in- 
truder and  finished  her  paragraph. 
Conscious,  however,  that  Rose  had 
not  retired  but  still  stood  waiting, 
she  wheeled  about  in  her  chair. 

"Rosie  O'Grady,"  sh«  said,  "with 
all  your  astuteness,  haven't  you  rec- 
ognized the  fact  that  nobody  can  turn 
the  door-knob  of  the  writer  when  he's 
in  a  frenzy  of  work  without  interrupt- 
ing him?  Much  less  stand  looking 
on !  Don't  you  know  you  may  put  to 
flight  some  perfect  phrase  that  never 


352  FOURSQUARE 

can  be  recaptured  ?  Now  go  away,  like  a  good,  kind  creature, 
and  don't  come  back.  I'm  working!  Let  it  be  understood 
now  and  forever.  I'm  willing  to  be  human  and  decent  at 
other  times — but  when  the  mood  possesses  me  at  last  I'm 
not  accessible  to  anybody,  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it. 
And  I'm  sorry  I  sound  brutal,  but  only  so  can  things  be  done." 

"Yes,  Miss  Mary  Fletcher,  and  well  I  understand  it. 
But  you  have  to  be  human  right  now,  and  that's  all  there  is 
ftbout  that.  The  biggest  thing  you  can  ever  do  at  that 
clacking  little  machine  can't  be  compared  with  the  thing 
that's  for  you  to  do  this  minute." 

Mary  stared  at  her.  There  was  no  mistaking  Rose's  tone 
• — it  was  one  not  to  be  denied.  Mary  ran  slim,  warm  fingers 
through  her  hair,  pushing  it  back  from  her  eyes,  which  had 
been  glowing  with  absorption  in  her  work. 

"Tell  me  quickly,  then,"  she  commanded. 

"Mr.  Perry  Gilfillan's  wired  Guy  that  he's  to  go  abroad 
with  him  and  study.  He's  to  leave  town  this  day  noon.  He- 
can't  go  without  saying  good-bye  to  you.  He's  here — in  the 
drawing-room,  crazy  with  joy — and  grief.  Now — do  you 
know  what's  before  you?  You  can  put  down  your  made-up 
people  and  go  lay  a  kind  hand  on  the  shoulder  that  aches  for 
the  touch  of  you." 

Mary  sprang  up.  "Oh,  Rose!  Of  course  I  will.  How 
wonderful — how  splendid!" 

"It  is  that.  But — of  course  you  know — what  you've  done 
to  the  lad.  So  you've  to  help  him  through  a  hard  hour.  And 
don't  be  in  too  much  of  a  hurry  to  get  back  to  your  white 
paper.  It's  not  the  equal  of  a  human  heart  to  write  on!" 

Mary  laid  a  hand  on  Rose's  arm.  Her  face  had  changed. 
"Do  you  really  think  I  need  to  be  told  that,  you  dear,  wise 
person?" 

"Not  when  you're  once  down  out  of  the  clouds.  I  just 
want  to  be  sure  you're  down,"  said  Rose  O'Grady,  her 


A  LITTLE  BROWN  BOOK  353 

severity  relaxing.  "  Poor  boy,  knowing  you's  been  the  making 
of  him,  and  he  understands  and  is  brave  as  the  soldier  he  is» 
But  saying  good-bye  to  you — that's  not  just  easy." 

"I'll  make  it  easy!"  And  Mary  went  out  of  the  room  as 
one  who  summons  all  her  powers  to  a  certain  end. 

An  hour  afterward  she  had  returned  from  the  station,  where 
she  had  taken  Guy  with  Rose  in  a  hurriedly  summoned 
motor.  Gone  for  the  time  was  the  eager  fitness  for  work,  but 
she  couldn't  mind.  There  had  been  a  half-hour  alone  with 
Guy  when  she  had  given  him  every  particle  of  herself  as  a 
friend  she  could  venture  to  give,  forever  enriching  for  him  the 
memory  of  one  he  could  only  worship  from  afar.  He  had 
gone  away  with  a  touch  of  her  lips  upon  his  fair  brow,  and  had 
left  upon  her  hand  the  fervidly  reverent  imprint  of  his  own. 
He  had  told  her  that  everything  was  right  with  him,  and  that 
be  would  study  and  work  till  he  made  her  proud  of  him. 

''I'm  proud  of  you  now,  Guy  Carter,"  she  had  said.  "And 
I  want  to  tell  you  something.  This  last  year  I  went  through 
A  long,  dark  time  of  discouragement,  when  I  thought  I  could 
never  work  again.  It's  all  past  now,  but  it  was  just  as  I  was 
beginning  to  recover  that  you  came  along.  And  you,  Guy, 
helped  me  to  get  on  my  feet  again." 

He  couldn't  believe  her,  and  said  so,  his  worshipping  eyes 
on  her  face. 

"Oh,  but  you  did!  It  was  the  sight  of  you,  so  crazy  to 
make  the  most  of  yourself  and  your  time  that  you  went  to 
work  with  one  hand — one  hand  and  a  hurt,  tired  body  unfit 
for  work.  But  with  a  perfectly  unbeaten  spirit,  Guy — a 
wonderful,  beautiful  spirit,  of  never  giving  in  to  hard  luck. 
And — working  with  you — I  caught  it !  Can  you  guess  that  if 
you  had  had  a  thousand  gifts  in  your  power,  you  couldn't 
have  given  me  a  greater  one?" 

The  joy  of  that  assurance  had  been  almost  more  than  he 
cou'd  bear.  But  it  did  for  him  what  she  had  meant  it  should — 


354  FOURSQUARE 

sent  him  away  on  that  winged  exaltation  of  the  soul  which 
is  the  most  powerful  aid  there  can  be  to  keeping  a  heart  brave 
through  a  parting  which  is  harder  than  anything  it  has  ever 
known.  He  would  prove  to  her — he  would  prove  to  her — 
that  he  was  a  man;  and  he  did.  The  last  look  she  had  of  him 
showed  her  the  same  smiling  face  with  which  he  had  once 
gone  away  from  a  humble  home  to  the  Great  War,  and  when 
he  waved  his  crutch  in  farewell  it  was  she  who  was  nearer  to 
tears  than  he,  so  pitiful  and  plucky  was  his  aspect.  Her 
thoughts  did  homage  to  the  young  soldier  who  so  loved  her 
that  he  could  go  away  to  work  for  her,  knowing  he  could  have 
no  other  reward  from  her  than  her  pride  in  him. 

But  if  anything  had  been  needed  to  send  her  back  to  her 
own  work,  after  a  rest  of  some  hours,  with  a  greater  longing 
than  ever  to  create  a  worthy  thing,  it  was  the  memory  of  Guy. 
Now  indeed  her  fingers  flew  at  the  bidding  of  her  brain. 
Deaf  and  blind  to  everything  she  worked  on  into  the  evening, 
and  stopped  only  to  go  for  the  bedtime  walk  which  meant  the 
cooling  of  the  fires  sufficiently  to  bank  them  for  the  night  and 
sleep.  Next  morning  she  was  at  her  task  again  betimes,  and 
all  day  she  worked,  now  and  then  flinging  herself  out  into  the 
garden  for  a  run  down  into  the  orchard,  and  returning  each 
time  with  cheeks  and  eyes  aglow,  to  shut  herself  again  into 
her  workshop  and  make  the  chips  fly  as  before. 

At  luncheon  Rose  put  in  a  word  of  protest. 

"I  know  you're  happy,  by  the  look  of  you,  and  that's  good 
for  you.  But  you're  still  made  of  flesh  and  blood  and  nerves, 
and  you  have  to  take  them  into  account,  and  not  overdraw." 

"Rosie,  when  I  can  work  as  I'm  working  now,  I  can't  tire. 
If  you  knew  what  it  is  to  me  to  be  fit  to  make  things  go  like 
this,  after  all  the  hours  and  weeks  and  months  of  drudgery! 
Such  bad  hours  will  come  again,  of  course,  but  let  me  drain 
the  cup  of  energy  while  it  lasts.  I'll  stop  in  an  hour  or  two 
more,  I  promise  you — when  the  first  shadow  of  my  first  real 


A  LITTLE  BROWN  BOOK  355 

ftook  is  done — bless  it!  It  is  real,  Rosie — whatever  the 
other  things  were.  Sham,  I  think  mostly,  now — sham  and 
shadow.  But  this — breathes,  I  know  it  does." 

"I  believe  it,"  said  Miss  O'Grady,  unexpectedly.  "And 
I  know  the  reason  why." 

"What  is  it?    I  wonder  if  you  do  know." 

"Because  you  yourself  breathe  now,  to  the  bottom  of  your 
lungs.  You  used  to  use  only  the  top  of  them,  before." 

"You're  right — as  you  always  are,"  and  Mary  came  around 
the  table  to  put  her  arms  about  Rose  and  lay  her  cheek 
against  Rose's  curly  red  hair. 

"There  now — don't  be  making  me  foolish  about  you — 
there's  enough  already."  But  Rose  patted  the  hands  which 
held  her,  appreciating  to  the  full  the  unwonted  caress  of  one 
she  loved  to  the  depths  of  her  warm  Irish  heart. 

When  the  chapter  was  done  Mary  went  for  a  wild  gallop 
on  horseback,  returning  to  bathe  and  dress  for  dinner,  re- 
freshed and  radiant.  As  evening  came  on  she  went  back  to 
the  place  of  books  and  work,  turned  on  a  light,  and  sat  down 
in  a  big  easy  chair  to  reread  the  pages  she  had  written.  It 
was  while  she  was  engaged  with  them,  more  critical  yet  more 
nearly  content  than  she  had  ever  been  with  any  effort,  that 
a  step  was  heard  in  the  hall  and  a  well-known  voice  saying: 

"In  here?  Thank  you,  Miss  Rose — if  you  think  she  won't 
mind." 

"She  drove  me  out  this  day — but  you — faith,  I'm  wishing 
you  better  luck,  Professor,"  answered  a  second  voice. 

Mary  sprang  up  as  Mark  came  in  and  closed  the  door  be- 
hind him.  The  sheets  of  the  finished  first  chapter  slid  un- 
heeded to  the  floor  as  she  went  to  meet  him. 

"Mary!    How  good  it  is  to  see  you!" 

"Mark!    When  did  you  come?" 

"An  hour  ago.  I  wanted  to  come  straight  over,  but  Har- 
riet wouldn't  let  me.  Said  she'd  heard  the  typer  clicking  all 


356  FOURSQUARE 

day,  and  Rose  had  warned  her  and  everybody  to  keep  away. 
But  I  prowled  around  and  noted  complete  silence,  so  I 
ventured.  But  I'd  have  come  anyway,  so  don't  give  me 
much  credit.  What  are  you  doing?" 

"Tell  me  first  what  you've  been  doing.  Come  and  sit  over 
here.  I  want  to  hear  it  all." 

He  told  it  rapidly,  the  almost  unbelievable  good  news. 
The  great  philanthropist  had  been  favourably  impressed 
from  the  first,  had  been  about  to  set  his  hand  to  the  papers 
which  would  give  Newcomb  a  large  sum  of  money;  then  had 
suddenly  been  taken  with  a  relapse  which  had  seemed  to 
indicate  the  immediate  end.  Mark  had  been  urged  to  de- 
lay, however,  and  had  done  so,  hoping  against  hope.  Finally 
the  old  man  had  rallied,  his  mind  perfectly  clear  after  days 
of  semi-consciousness,  and  had  executed  the  deed-in-gift 
which  assured  to  Newcomb  a  permanent  income  of  such  size 
that  all  things  now  seemed  possible.  In  effect  it  would 
transform  the  college,  setting  it  on  a  permanent  foundation. 

"Oh,  how  splendid!  So  you're  gloriously  happy.  And  so 
am  I — as  if  I'd  always  cared  for  Newcomb  as  I  do  now." 

"Do  you  care  for  Newcomb?"  he  asked,  watching  her  face. 
"Really  care  for  it — the  old,  poor,  obscure  little  college  with 
no  discernible  future  up  till  now — and  its  reputation  still  to 
make,  as  far  as  the  most  of  the  world  is  concerned  ?  Even 
money  won't  give  it  position,  Mary,  you  know — we've  got  to 
put  into  it  something  that  even  money  won't  buy." 

"I  know.  But — you  have  that  to  put  into  it,  if  no  other 
man  has.  Mark — I've  read  your  book!" 

"Have  you?" 

She  was  looking  at  him  with  something  in  her  eyes  which 
he  had  never  seen  there  before,  and  which  startled  him  with 
the  recognition  of  its  source.  It  was  the  look  of  the  woman 
who  has  to  lift  her  eyes  to  a  man  because  she  feels  him  head 
and  shoulders  above  her.  He  looked  back  at  her,  and  in  his 


A  LITTLE  BROWN  BOOK  357 

face  was  the  look  of  the  man  who  can't  quite  believe  that  he 
can  have  inspired  such  a  feeling,  because  he  doesn't  think 
himself  worthy  of  it.  But  it  was  there,  in  her  face,  and  with 
it — something  else  he  had  hoped  to  find  there.  The  two 
things  together  might  well  make  his  heart  leap. 

"Before  I  tell  you  what  I  think  of  it,"  she  said,  a  trifle  un- 
steadily smiling  and  drawing  a  little  away  from  him  as  he 
would  have  come  nearer,  "I  want  to  read  you  my  chapter. 
It's  the  beginning  of  the  book  I've  been  hoping  for  two  years 
to  write — only  I  couldn't  find  it — or  find  myself.  Will  you 
listen?" 

His  smile  said  that  he  would  listen,  if  that  was  what  she 
decreed.  Listening  wouldn't  be  hard,  since  he  might  look  at 
her,  even  if  he  should  find  it  difficult  to  keep  his  mind  upon 
her  work  rather  than  upon  herself.  So  she  settled  herself 
by  the  reading  light,  and  he  brought  his  chair  opposite  hers- 
and  took  his  place.  The  reading  began,  in  Mary's  low  voice 
with  its  rich  cadences  which  made  hearing  her  a  delight,  no 
matter  what  she  read. 

Not  a  sound  from  him  broke  the  stillness,  except  her 
spoken  words,  till  she  had  finished.  Even  then,  for  a  long 
minute,  he  neither  moved  nor  spoke.  Then  he  left  his 
chair,  came  over  to  her,  and  taking  both  her  hands  drew  her 
to  her  feet.  His  eyes  looked  into  hers  and  there  were  hot 
tears  in  his  own. 

"Mary!"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "Do  you  know — 
do  you  know — what  you've  done?" 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  know  what  you've  done,"  she 
said.  "You've  given  me,  in  your  book,  something  that's 
made  mine  possible." 

"No! — My  plain  little  talks — I  hardly  had  time  to  put 
them  in  shape.  They're  nothing — compared  with  what 
you've  just  read  me.  Why,  Mary — I  didn't  know  you  were 
capable  of  such  work." 


358  FOURSQUARE 

"You've  made  me  so." 

"It  can't  be!" 

"But  it  is.  That  little  brown  book — why,  it  set  me  on 
fire!  There's  something  in  it — I  can't  quite  analyze  it — but 
it's  the  thing  I  need  to  make  everything  possible.  You  make 
me  see — feel — believe.  It's  as  if — oh,  I  don't  know  if  I  can 
tell  you " 

"I  wish  you'd  try." 

"It's  as  if" — she  spoke  slowly  and  carefully — "I'd  not 
had  power  enough — not  force — not  will — not  purpose.  And 
then — as  if  I'd  been  connected  up  with  just  all  that.  Mark — 
it  was  all  in  the  little  brown  book!" 

"Oh,  Mary!"  It  was  all  he  could  say  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  managed  to  add  a  question:  "But — your  play?  I 
thought  that  was  everything — till  you  read  me  this  other, 
bigger  beginning.  I  wasn't  responsible  for  that,  in  any  way." 

"Weren't  you?    Oh,  Mark!" 

But  now  it  was  she  who  could  say  no  more.  There  was  no 
need.  He  could  hardly  have  borne  more  just  then.  The 
only  relief  to  his  surcharged  heart  was  to  pour  out  to  her 
in  a  few  broken  sentences  his  amazement,  his  pride,  his  love, 
and  then  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  ...  In  the  silence 
which  succeeded  speech  he  told  her  even  more. 


THE  END 


The  greatest  pleasure  in  life  is 
that  of  reading.  Why  not  then 
own  the  books  of  great  novelists 
when  the  price  is  so  small 


<J  Of  all  the  amusements  which  can  possibly 
be  imagined  for  a  hard-working  man,  after 
his  daily  toil,  or  in  its  intervals,  there  is 
nothing  like  reading  an  entertaining  book. 
It  calls  for  no  bodily  exertion.  It  transports 
him  into  a  livelier,  and  gayer,  and  more  di- 
versified and  interesting  scene,  and  while  he 
enjoys  himself  there  he  may  forget  the  evils 
of  the  present  moment.  Nay,  it  accompanies 
him  to  his  next  day's  work,  and  gives  him 
something  to  think  of  besides  the  mere 
mechanical  drudgery  of  his  every-day  occu- 
pation— something  he  can  enjoy  while  absent, 
and  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  return  to. 

Ask  your  dealer  for  a  list  of  the  titles 
in    Burl's    Popular    Priced    Fiction 


In  buying  the  books  bearing  the 
A.  L.  Burt  Company  imprint 
you  are  assured  of  wholesome,  en- 
tertaining and  instructive  reading 


THE   BEST  OF  RECENT  FICTION 


Adventures  of  Jimmie  Dale.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Adventures  of  Sherlock  Holmes.    A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Adventures  of  the  D.  C  I.    Major  C.  E.  Russell. 

Affair  in  Duplex  9B,  The.    William  Johnston. 

Affair  at  the  Chateau,  The.    Mrs.  Baillie  Reynolds. 

Affinities  and  Other  Stories.     Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

After  House,  The.     Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

After  Noon.    Susan  Em. 

Ah,  the  Delicate  Passion.     Elizabeth  Hall  Yates. 

Ailsa  Page.     Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Alcatraz.     Max  Brand. 

All  at  Sea.    Carolyn  Wells. 

All  the  Way  by  Water.    Elizabeth  Stancy  Payne.. 

Altar  of  Friendship,  The.    Blanche  Upright. 

Amateur  Gentleman,    Jeffery  Farnol. 

Amateur  Inn,  The.     Albert  Payson  Terhune. 

Anabel  at  Sea.     Samuel  Merwin. 

An  Accidental  Accomplice.    William  Johnston. 

Ancestor  Jorico.     William  J.  Locke. 

And  They  Lived  Happily  Ever  After.    Meredith  Nicholson. 

Angel  Esquire.    Edgar  Wallace. 

Angel  of  Terror.    Edgar  Wallace. 

Anne  of  the  Island.    L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Anne's  House  of  Dreams.   L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Annihilation.    Isabel  Ostrander. 

Ann's  Crime.     R.  T.  M.  Scott. 

An  Ordeal  of  Honor.    Anthony  Pryde. 

Anything  But  the  Truth.    Carolyn  Wells. 

April  and  Sally  June.     Margaret  Piper  Chalmers. 

Are  All  Men  Alike,  and  The  Lost  Titan.    Arthur  Stringer. 

Aristocratic  Miss  Brewster,  The.    Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Around  Old  Chester.    Margaret  Deland. 

Arrant  Rover,  The.   Berta  Ruck. 

As  a  Thief  in  the  Night.     R.  Austin  Freeman. 

A  Self-Made  Thief.     Hulbert  Footner. 

Astounding  Crime  on  Torrington  Road,  The.    William  Gillette. 

At  Sight  of  Gold.    Cynthia  Lombardi. 

At  the  Foot  of  the  Rainbow.    James  B.  Hendryx. 

At  the  Mercy  of  Tiberius.    Augusta  Evans  Wilson. 

At  the  South  Gate.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Auction  Block,  The.    Rex  Beach. 

Aunt  Jane  of  Kentucky.    Eliza  C.  Hail. 

Aurelius  Smith — Detective.     R.  T.  M.  Scott. 

Autocrat,  The.    Pearl  Doles  Bell. 

Aw  Hell!     Clarke  Venable. 


THE  BEST   OF  RECENT  FICTION 


Bab:  a  Sub-Deb.    Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Babe  Ruth's  Own  Book  of  Baseball.    George  Herman  Ruth. 

Backwoods  Princess,  A.     Hulbert  Footner. 

Bad  One,  The.     John  Farrow. 

"Barabbas."     Marie  Corelli. 

Barberry  Bush.    Kathleen  Norris. 

Barrier,  The.     Rex  Beach. 

Bars  of  Iron,  The.    Ethel  M.  Dell. 

Bartenstein  Mystery,  The.    J.  S.  Fletcher. 

Bar-20.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar-20  Days.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar  20  Rides  Again,  The.    Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bar-20  Three.      Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Bat  Wing.     Sax  Rohmer. 

Beauty  and  the  Beast.    Kathleen  Norris. 

Beauty  Mask,  The.    H.  M.  Clamp. 

Beginners,  The.     Henry  Kitchell  Webster. 

Beg  Pardon  Sir!     Reginald  Wright  Kauffman. 

Bella  Donna.     Robert  Hichens. 

Bellamy  Trial,  The.     Frances  Noyes  Hart. 

Belonging.     Olive  Wadsley. 

Beloved  Pawn,  The.     Harold  Titus. 

Beloved  Rajah,  The.     A.  E.  R.  Craig. 

Beloved  Traitor,  The.      Frank  L.  Packard. 

Beloved  Vagabond,  The.     William  J.  Locke-. 

Beloved  Woman,  The.    Kathleen  Norris. 

Beltane  the  Smith.    Jeffery  Farnol. 

Benson  Murder  Case,  The.     S.  S.  Van  Dine. 

Best  Ghost  Stories,  The.     Edited  by  Bohun  Lynch. 

Beyond  the  Frontier.     Randall  Parrish. 

Bigamist,  The.     John  Jay  Chichester. 

Big  Brother.    Rex  Beach. 

Big  Mogul,  The.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Big  Shot,  The.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Big  Timber.     Bertrand  W.  Sinclair. 

Bill  the  Conqueror.    P.  Q.  Wodehouse. 

Bill— The  Sheik.     A.  M.  Williamson. 

Bird  of  Freedom.     Hugh  Pendexter. 

Black  Abbot,  The.     Edgar  Wallace. 

Black  Bartlemy's  Treasure.    Jeffery  Farnof. 

Black  Bull,  The.     H.  Bedford-Jones. 

Black  Buttes.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Black  Company,  The.     W.  B.  M.  Ferguson, 

Black  Flemings,  The.     Kathleen  Norris. 

Black  Butterflies.     Elizabeth  Jordan. 

Black  Glove,  The.     J.  G.  Sarasin. 


THE  BEST   OF  RECENT  FICTION 


Black  Ivory.     Polan  Banks. 

Black  Magician,  The.     R.  T.  M.  Scott. 

Black  Oxen.     Gertrude  Atherton. 

Black  Stamp,  The.     Will  Scott. 

Black  Turret,  The.      Patrick  Wynnton. 

Blades.     George  Barr  McCutcheon. 

Blair's  Attic.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln  and  Freeman  Lincoln. 

Blatchington  Tangle,  The.    G.  D.  H.  and  Margaret  Cole. 

Bleston  Mystery,  The.    Robert  Milward  Kennedy. 

Bloody  Ground.     Oscar  J.  Friend. 

Blue  Blood.      Owen  Johnson. 

Blue  Car  Mystery,  The.     Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln. 

Blue  Castle,  The.     L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Blue  Hand.      Edgar  Wallace. 

Blue  Jay,  The.     Max  Brand. 

Bob,  Son  of  Battle.     Alfred  Ollivant. 

Bondwoman,  The.     G.  U.  Ellis. 

Born  Rich.     Hughes  Cornell. 

Borrowed  Shield,  The.     Richard  E.  Enright. 

Boss  of  Eagle's  Nest,  The.     William  West  Winter. 

Boss  of  the  Diamond  A.    Robert  Ames  Bennet. 

Boss  of  the  Tumbling  H.     Frank  C.  Robertson. 

Box  With  Broken  Seals.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

Branded.     Robert  Ames  Bennet. 

Brass.      Charles  G.  Norris. 

Brass  Bowl.     Louis  Joseph  Vance. 

Bravo  Jim.      W.  D.  Hoffman. 

Bread.     Charles  G.  Norris. 

Bread  and  Jam.     Nalbro  Bartley. 

Break-Up,  The.      Esther  Birdsall  Darling. 

Breaking  Point,  The.     Mary  Roberts  Rinehart. 

Bride's  Progress,  The.     Harold  Weston. 

Bright  Shawl,  The.    Joseph  Hergesheimer. 

Bring  Me  His  Ears.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Broad  Highway,  The.     Jeffery  Farnol. 

Broken  Barriers.     Meredith  Nicholson. 

Broken  Waters.     Frank  L.  Packard. 

Bronze  Hand,  The.      Carolyn  Wells. 

Brood  of  the  Witch  Queen.     Sax  Rohmer. 

Brook  Evans.     Susan  Glaspell. 

Brown  Study,  The.     Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Buck  Peters,  Ranchman.    Clarence  E.  Mulford 

Bullet  Eater.     Oscar  J.  Friend. 

Burned  Evidence.     Mrs.  Wilson  Woodrow. 

Bush  Rancher,  The.    Harold  Bindloss. 

Bush  That  Burned,  A.    Marjorie  Barclay  McClure. 


THE  BEST  OF  RECENT  FICTION 


Buster,  The.      William  Patterson  White. 
Butterfly.     Kathleen  Norris. 

Cabbages  and  Kings.      O.  Henry. 

Cabin  at  the  Trail's  End.     Sheba  Hargreaves 

Callahans  and  the  Murphys.     Kathleen  Norris. 

Calling  of  Dan  Matthews.     Harold  Bell  Wright. 

Can  Women  Forget?    Florence  Riddell. 

Cape  Cod  Stories.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Captain  Brand  of  the  Schooner  "Centipede."     Lieut.  Henry  A.  Wise. 

Cap'n  Dan's  Daughter.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Eri.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cap'n  Jonah's  Fortune.    James  A.  Cooper. 

Captains  of  Souls.     Edgar  Wallace. 

Cap'n  Sue.     Hulbert  Footner. 

Cap'n  Warren's  Wards.     Joseph  C.  Lincoln. 

Cardigan.     Robert  W.  Chambers. 

Carib  Gold.     Ellery  H.  Clark. 

Carnac's  Folly.    Sir  Gilbert  Parker. 

Carry  On,  Jeeves!      P.  G.  Wodehouse. 

Case  and  the  Girl.     Randall  Parrish. 

Case  Book  of  Sherlock  Holmes,  The.    A.  Conan  Doyle. 

Cask,  The.     Freeman  Wills  Crofts. 

Cat-O'Mountain.     Arthur  O.  Friel. 

Cat's  Eye,  The.     R.  Austin  Freeman. 

Catspaw,  The.     Terry  Shannon. 

Cattle.      Winifred  Eaton  Reeve. 

Cattle  Baron,  The.     Robert  Ames  Bennet. 

Cavalier  of  Tennessee.     Meredith  Nicholson. 

Celestial  City,  The.     Baroness  Orczy. 

Certain  Dr.  Thprndyke,  A.     R.  Austin  Freeman. 

Certain  People  of  Importance.     Kathleen  Norris. 

Chaffee  of  Roaring  Horse.     Ernest  Haycox. 

Chance — and  the  Woman.     Ellis  Middleton. 

"Charteris  Mystery.     A.  Fielding. 

Cherry  Square.     Grace  S.    Richmond. 

Cheyne  Mystery,  The.    Freeman  Wills  Crofts. 

Child  of  the  North.     Ridgwell  Cullum. 

Child  of  the  Wild.     Edison  Marshall. 

Children  of  Divorce.     Owen  Johnson. 

Chronicles  of  Avonlea.     L.  M.  Montgomery. 

Cinema  Murder,  The.     E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 

City  of  Lilies,  The.    Anthony  Pryde  and  R.  K.  Weeks. 

City  of  Peril,  The.     Arthur  Stringer. 

City  of  the  Sun,  The.     Edwin  L.  Sabin. 


THE  BEST   OF  RECENT  FICTION 


Clair  De  Lune.     Anthony  Pryde. 

Clever  One,  The.      Edgar  Wallace. 

Click  of  Triangle  T.     Oscar  J.  Friend. 

Clifford  Affair,  The.      A.   Fielding. 

Clock  Strikes  Two,  The.     Henry  Kitchell  Webster. 

Clouded  Pearl,  The.      Berta   Ruck. 

Cloudy  in  the  West.     William  Patterson  White. 

Club  of  Masks,  The.     Allen  Upward. 

Clue  of  the  New  Pin,  The.     Edgar  Wallace. 

Clue  of  the  Twisted  Candle.     Edgar  Wallace. 

Coast  of  Enchantment.     Burton  E.  Stevenson. 

Cock's  Feather.     Katherine  Newlin  Burt. 

Cold  Harbour.     Francis  Brett  Young. 

Colorado  Jim.     George  Goodchild. 

Come  Home.     Stella  G.  S.  Perry. 

Coming  of  Cassidy,  The.      Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Coming  of  Cosgrove,  The.     Laurie  Y.  Erskine. 

Coming  of  the  Law,  The.     Charles  A.  Selzer. 

Communicating  Door,  The.      Wadsworth  Camp. 

Concerning  Him.    Introduced  by  the  writer  of  "To  M.  L.  G." 

Confidence  Man,  The.     Laurie  Y.  Erskine. 

Conquest  of  Canaan,  The.     Booth  Tarkington. 

Conquering  Lover,  The.    Pamela  Wynne. 

Conqueror  Passes,  A.     Larry  Barretto. 

Constant  Nymph,  The.     Margaret  Kennedy. 

Contraband.      Clarence  Budington  Kelland. 

Copper  Moon.     Edwin  Bateman  Morris. 

Corbin  Necklace,  The.     Henry  Kitchell  Webster. 

Corsican  Justice.    J.  G.  Sarasin. 

Corson  of  the  J.  C.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Cottonwood  Gulch.     Clarence  E.  Mulford. 

Court  of  Inquiry,  A.    Grace  S.  Richmond. 

Cow  Woman,  The.     George  Gilbert. 

Crime  at  Red  Towers.     Chester  K.  Steele. 

Crime  in  the  Crypt,  The.     Carolyn  Wells. 

Crimson  Circle,  The.     Edgar  Wallace. 

Crooked.     Maximilian  Foster. 

Crooked  Cross,  The.     Charles  J.  Button. 

Crook's  Shadow,  The.     J.  Jefferson  Far]  eon. 

Cross  Trails.     Harold  Bindloss. 

Cruel  Fellowship.     Cyril  Hume. 

Cryder  of  the  Big  Woods.     George  C.  Shedd. 

Cry  in  the  Wilderness,  A.    Mary  E.  Waller. 

Crystal  Cup,  The.     Gertrude  Atherton. 

Cup  of  Fury,  The.     Rupert  Hughes. 

Curious  Quest,  The.    E.  Phillips  Oppenheim. 


UCSB  1IBRA-RY 


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